


In The Woods Somewhere

by WithMyTeeth (Ylith)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Bad Guy Peter Hale, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Endgame, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fox Stiles, M/M, Temporarily Feral Derek Hale, Werefox Stiles, non-con peter/stiles, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:46:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 44,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4166421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ylith/pseuds/WithMyTeeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter travels with various carnivals, showcasing a massive black wolf he parades as a man-eating beast.  In his caravan he keeps Stiles, his most precious possession who is much more special than he may outwardly appear.  Stiles feels a kinship with the creature through their mutual captivity, so when he makes his escape he frees the wolf as well.  Like Stiles though, the wolf is also more than he appears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever Teen Wolf fic, so please be kind! See end notes for clarification on the rape/non-con and underage warnings.

The weather had recently turned cool, the crisper nights thinning the usual crowds earlier each day. Peter never minded the cold; he enjoyed lounging lazily under quilts, preferably intertwined with another warm body, but the accompanying decrease in income was less than desireable. He supposed it was time to move on and find a new carnival to tour with; a change of scenery for both him and his little beastie.

Finding a new troupe had always been easy. Peter’s act carried a certain notoriety, and many carnivals had offered him more than they could afford for the chance to host him and his monster. The townsfolk lapped up his ridiculous story of a beast that terrorized the woodlands of eastern Europe, gaining its size and ghoulish gaze from the human flesh it craved and consumed. Many paid handsomely to test their valor and enter the foreboding tent alone to meet the beast face to face. Peter liked to watch them leave, their eyes wide and mouths hanging as though they’d stared death itself in the eye and not his bedraggled wolf. Peter doubted the creature had ever even killed anything larger than a sheep, and it hadn’t hunted anything the last three years it had continuously been in the cage. 

Now, his monster lived primarily on the meager cuts of meat left over from troupe dinners, though this night Peter had procured a rare treat. The paper packet crinkled in his hand as he pushed back the heavy curtain of the beast’s tent, his lantern filling the dank space with a soft glow just strong enough to illuminate the dark form slumped in the corner of the cage. 

The heavy chain around its throat clinked softly as the wolf lifted his head at Peter’s approaching footsteps. Though it did not rise, its eyes followed him closely in obvious distrust. 

Peter held up the packet, his smile smug as he shook it. “You’ve been very good, Derek,” he said before plucking at the twine holding the paper secure. “Good behavior deserves reward.” 

The wolf watched him carefully, his luminous blue eyes fixed, tracking Peter’s every movement with a seemingly calculated mistrust as the man drew out the raw lamb shank. He remained motionless even as Peter knelt down, the bone dangled between two fingers. Peter moved as though to extend his hand between the bars before pausing dramatically, teeth bared in a self satisfied smirk. “I wager you’d love it if I actually reached through the bars.”

The wolf curled its lip back, baring his top teeth. 

Peter chuckled. “You’d bite the hand that feeds you clean off, wouldn’t you? Still not broken after all this time...maybe I underestimated you.” He tossed the meat into the cage, letting it rest by the wolf’s massive paw. The wolf bared his teeth once more in warning, head slung low before it tentatively leaned forwards to take up the meat between careful jaws. 

Peter huffed, almost disappointed at the apparent culmination of the creature’s defiance. “Maybe not, after all.”

He locked the cage, tying down the tarp before leaving the tent to protect against any early visitors who might try to peek in without paying. He smirked to himself as he ambled across the short distance to his own caravan, nodding to the few fellow carnies he passed. Peter never bothered to get too close to anyone. He was amiable enough for pleasant small talk but lacked any desire for the deeper familial connection his fellows in the carnival sought out. He preferred to not cause trouble, but not be too memorable, not have people look too deeply into his personal affairs. 

He had his jacket unbuttoned by the time he reached the caravan, shrugging it off as he unlocked the door. He hated the ridiculous outfit, found the jacket heavy and restricting and far too garish for his own taste. Unfortunately, an unavoidable accompaniment to a life in show business was dressing to attract attention. After shutting his door and draping the jacket over his dressing table, he turned towards his bed and immediately chuckled. “My my, how sepulchral you look tonight.”

A small red fox lay sprawled on its belly atop his bed, its chin resting across its leg. A short thin length of chain was wrapped about its neck and secured to the headboard. The fox made no move as Peter entered, not even after Peter removed the chain from about its neck. 

Peter languidly undid the buttons of his shirt and sleeves, pulling his shirt down his muscular arms and draping it over the headboard. He tilted his head as he looked down at the fox, clucking his tongue in a playful ‘tsk’. “Still pouting?” he asked, lips curling with amusement. “If you had behaved, I wouldn’t need the chain.”

The fox remained motionless, even when Peter reached forward and stroked a finger behind a silky ear. Peter huffed, turning his back to the fox to fetch his robe. “Does your punishment need to be extended to tomorrow?” he asked, voice saccharine as he loosely belted the robe. “Or are you ready to be sweet?”

When he turned back towards the bed, the sleek fox was gone. In its place lay a naked young man, prone on his belly with his face pressed into his folded arms. Peter smiled down at him, eyes hungrily roaming over the youth’s creamy flesh while he heavily ran an affectionate hand across his pert little bottom with a pleased hum. “Much better.”

The boy squirmed away from his hand, his head still pillowed in his arms until Peter let a finger drift into the cleft of his ass. He finally raised his head up just enough to flash his honey eyes angrily at the older man. 

Peter sat on the edge of the bed with a withering sigh, running his thumb across the small beauty marks which speckled the boy’s smooth cheek before cupping his jaw. “You brought this on yourself, Stiles. How am I to trust you when you keep disobeying me?” Peter brushed his thumb between the boy’s plush lips, almost daring him to try and bite. “It’s almost as though you’re not happy here with me…”

Stiles jerked from Peter’s grasp, wiping his jaw against his shoulder. “Then let me clarify, I’m not-”

The boy was cut off by a stinging smack to his backside, a clear warning despite the Peter’s bemused expression. 

“Now Stiles...don’t sour the mood. We were just getting back on the right track.” Peter stroked down the length of the boy’s spine, finally resting a solid and warm palm against the dip of his lower back. Stiles’ face lowered again to rest on his arms, the supplicant bow of his neck urging Peter’s lips to curl in self satisfaction. 

“That’s it,” Peter purred, hand raising to caress Stiles’ messy hair. “Things would be so much easier if you’d only be sweet to me, Stiles...so much better. Yet if you insist on such tantrums, or give indication you plan on running away, I may need to calm you with some tea...”

Stiles’ eyes flashed gold at that, fear flickering across his expressive face before he managed to regain control. Peter sighed with contentment when Stiles’ entire body loosened, knowing he’d have a well behaved fox on his hands again. The brewed concoction didn’t contain enough foxglove to kill the boy, but it made him violently ill and weakened him to the point that he was completely dependent on Peter for days until his body worked out the toxin. Peter generally preferred not to stoop to such desperate levels, but if pushed he would respond in kind. 

Stiles rolled onto his back then, tongue peeking out to wet his lips until they were enticingly petal pink and shiny. His hands barely trembled when he rested them on Peter’s shoulders, eyes bright as he looked up coyly through his lashes. “I’m sorry, Peter.” His voice was soft and sweet, the put upon innocence going right to Peter’s cock. “You’ve done so much for me...I’m sorry for being so difficult.”

The boy spread his legs to accommodate him when Peter shifted over to settle between them, feet planted against the bedding to keep his knees drawn up. He brushed his fingers idly down Peter’s chest, raising his head just enough to press a small kiss to the corner of the older man’s mouth. “Do you forgive me?”

His doe eyes widened theatrically, and while Peter knew it was put upon, he couldn’t help the swell of pride in his chest at the plea. He wrapped the boy in his arms, nose burrowed against Stiles’ throat as he breathed in the fresh woodland scent of him. “Of course my little kit, but you have to promise never to try and run away again.”

Stiles nodded eagerly, winding his lanky arms about the man’s neck while Peter held him and pressed open-mouthed kisses down the length of his throat. “I won't,” he swore. 

Peter pushed back one of Stiles’ thighs to open him further, caging the boy in with his body. “Who do you belong to?” he ground out, his voice rough with want. 

Stiles gasped, arching his back to rock their hips together, fingers clenched tight in Peter’s hair. He was inelegant and fumbling, but it only made Peter crave him more. “You- I belong to you. Peter please!”

“What do you want?” Peter curled his tongue against Stiles’ earlobe, drawing the tender flesh between his teeth. 

“You inside me.” Stiles bit his lower lip, eyes dark as he arched himself under Peter’s hands, melting against his touch. The little minx knew just how to placate him, but Peter was only too happy to be placated if it meant he could sink his cock into the clutching heat of Stiles’ body. 

He did so love when Stiles behaved.

 

\-----

Since Stiles was a child, his father had taught him the importance of keeping his fox a secret. He had been warned that if anyone knew what he really was, they would either see him as an abomination or a prize to be exploited. Though he’d never speak it aloud, Stiles was secretly grateful his father had not lived long enough to see his predictions come to fruition. Losing his mother at an early age had been difficult, but he’d had time to grieve, a luxury not afforded to him later when he lost his father as well. On his own and little more than a boy, Stiles had learned how to stay alive. 

Stiles had always been resourceful. He’d learned to steal first, his fidgety flighty nature only lending itself to his endeavors. He’d trip against a man, flustered with pink cheeked embarrassment as he righted the man’s jacket and lifted his purse. He used his boyish charm and innocent face to distract his marks, and as he grew he learned how to use his body to get men to willingly open their purses to him. Selling his body was easier than stealing. A few minutes on his knees in an alley guaranteed him enough coin for at least hot meal, if not possibly a soft bed for the evening in an inn. 

He’d been on a run the first time Peter saw him. 

When Stiles’ body felt too tight, too wound and strained with worry or heartache, he donned his fox skin and ran free in the forest. He loved the clean smell of it, the chirp of the birds and give of the earth beneath his feet. One day he’d come to a stop in a clearing, the sun shining down so lovely and warm that he’d dropped to the ground, happy and panting as he shifted back to human form to lay naked in the grass. 

His sunbathing was interrupted shortly thereafter though by a rustle in the trees. Stiles had immediately sat up, body coiled with tension and ready to run when he met eyes with a man. The man was leaning against a tree, eyeing his bared body with curious delight and obvious want. Stiles frantically tried to discern what all the man had seen, but when the stranger took a step towards him and told him not to run, Stiles had immediately leapt to his feet and done just that. 

Stiles was fleet of foot in human form, but nowhere near as nimble and quick as he was in his fox skin, so he took the chance to shift and made his escape. He didn’t stop until he was back at the outskirts of town, at the hollow tree he’d marked with his scent and hidden his clothes in. He figured that he had succeeded in eluding the man for good, but he had been wrong. 

Somehow, Peter had found him. 

He’d just finished with a customer, the man’s bitter seed still fouling his mouth. He was spitting to dull the taste when he’d bumped into a solid form. His eyes had gone wide when he recognized the man from the woods, whom to his horror seemed to recognize him just as easily in turn. 

The man’s white teeth were bared with a delighted grin, his hands firm and warm on Stiles’ arms as he told him not to be afraid. He’d told Stiles what a wonder he was, what a treasure. He’d promised Stiles a better life, nothing grand but which would allow him to stop whoring himself to get by. Peter had been so tender in the beginning, so understanding and affectionate that for a little while Stiles actually believed him sincere. Peter never once suggested Stiles become part of his act at the carnival, but Stiles quickly learned that Peter’s willingness to hide him away was less for Stiles’ safety and more because Peter was a covetous man who preferred to keep Stiles entirely to himself. 

It was Peter who had first suggested that Stiles spend the day in his fox skin when Stiles confessed to feeling too cooped up in the small caravan. Peter had held him in his arm all day, carried him to his tent where he housed the ghastly beast he peddled and set Stiles on his lap while he collected money for the viewings. Stiles had enjoyed the lazy day in his fur, relished being pet and doted upon after several years of being on his own. Peter began bringing him out most days, insisting Stiles’ presence was both comforting and lucrative. The sleek docile fox enticed women and children, and with them their escorts who might otherwise shy from his attraction, but rose to the challenge like preening peacocks when presented with the suggestion they were too afraid to face Peter’s beast. 

Things changed when Stiles told Peter he wanted to leave. 

Stiles had insisted that he was too cloistered, that he needed more freedom and space and that Peter kept him on too short a leash. Peter had quieted him with a night of passionate lovemaking, promising to make things better without actually offering any possible solution. Though Peter more than satisfied Stiles in bed it was still not enough, and Stiles soon again felt himself coming undone with the need to run free. 

Stiles had felt guilty the first time he ran. He even went so far as to leave a note thanking Peter for everything he’d done, and asking for the man’s understanding and forgiveness. He’d figured Peter would be angry, but he never could have anticipated what actually came to pass. 

He never uncovered how Peter found him. He’d been gone two days, was several towns beyond the carnival and had barely left the barn he’d been hiding in. Nevertheless, he woke the second night to Peter’s face hovering above him, the man’s eyes cold and narrow. Stiles hadn’t even had a chance to speak before his nose and mouth were covered, a pungent odor filling his nostrils and sending him into an almost immediate sleep. 

When he had finally awoken, he was in his fox skin and unable to shift. Peter had fastened a silvery chain about his neck and attached it to the bed, too short to allow for much movement. Stiles had panicked when his repeated attempts to shift all failed, and he thrashed against the thin chain which for some reason he seemed unable to break. Then Peter was there, hovering over him and stroking two fingers down his silky back, twirling against his fluffy tail. Stiles had wanted to bite him, but worried what the man would do in retaliation. Peter had told him the chain was silver painted over with a foxglove tincture. Stiles wouldn’t be able to break it and wouldn’t be able to shift so long as he wore it. He’d told Stiles how disappointed he was, how much it wounded him that Stiles would leave. Then he’d put Stiles in the cage. 

The cage was small, barely enough space for Stiles to stand or turn, forcing him to lay curled in wait for Peter’s return. Peter had told him it was his punishment, that he’d lost Peter’s trust with this little betrayal and would have to earn it back. While Peter manned his tent and peddled his beast Stiles, was kept in the cage. This went on until Stiles dreaded being forced into it so much that he was willing to do whatever Peter wanted, even stay with him. 

The gratitude he’d felt the first day Peter agreed the carry Stiles around in fox form made Stiles ill, but he was grateful nonetheless. He’d practically preened on Peter’s lap outside the beast’s tent, body electric with the joy of finally being out of the cage. He was the perfect playful little pet, tilting his chin for scratches and pets, licking Peter’s fingers when they came close to his mouth whereas before all he would have wanted to do was bite them. 

Stiles remembered the first time Peter had taken him into the Beast’s tent. He’d picked Stiles up and held him with one arm supporting his belly, keeping Stiles close to his chest as he stroked his head with his free hand. “Come and see my little beasty” he’d all but purred into Stiles’ ear. 

Stiles remembered the darkened tent, immediately caught off guard by the cloying sense of despair and torment within. It had spooked him, made his hackles rise and his mouth open with sharp little pants as he sought to calm himself, though Peter’s hands kept him firmly in place and unable to squirm away. 

The animal was huge, much larger than a regular wolf, with eyes that shone bright blue even in the darkness. It had raised into head to Stiles, those ghostly eyes boring into him, and although it made no aggressive gesture Stiles was overcome with the need to get out of the tent at once. 

“Derek was too willful, too disobedient,” Peter had said. “So he stays in the cage.”

Stiles had known it was a warning, but it was still only a matter of time before he’d run away again. 

It happened after the first time he felt forced to lie with Peter. Stiles’ mouth often had a tendency to run too freely, and one night he mindlessly insinuated that he might go out and find a man to sleep with instead if Peter continued to take such a tone with him. The look that flashed over Peter’s face chilled him to the core, and though Peter had never once struck him, Stiles had cowered back when the older man grabbed his wrists. He’d insisted he hadn’t meant it, voice playful as he told Peter he had no need to be so jealous, seeing as Stiles hadn’t even looked at another man in his human form in months. 

The mood was soured until Stiles forced himself to lead a trail of gentle kisses down Peter’s chest and he sank to his knees, to take Peter’s prick into his mouth and suckle him. He’d made sure to whimper and moan later when Peter fucked him, hitch his thighs around the man’s hips and cling to him like a limpet. Peter had been appeased, but Stiles was left feeling hollow afterward. 

Stiles didn’t bother to leave a note the second time he ran, taking only the barest of supplies he could scavenge from inside the caravan. He’d asked Peter for a day in bed, biting his lip as he’d insisted he was still sore from the previous night, which the older man seemed amused by. Peter had even kissed him tenderly, called him a delicate boy and promised to be more gentle the next time. Stiles had forced himself to wait at least an hour to ensure that Peter wouldn’t return before he slipped from the caravan. He’d immediately run to the road, not daring to look behind him for fear of what he might see. 

He had been so careful, so cautious to avoid main roads and keep his face hidden. He’d been inspecting fruit at a stand in the market when he was gripped by the back of the neck and dragged into a firm hold. Peter had nuzzled him in an affectionate gesture, but his low tone warned against any type of struggle. “I’ve missed you, little one,” he’d said, arm tightening about Stiles’ shoulders as he escorted him to the edge of the village. 

Stiles didn’t know how Peter found him. The man never divulged his methods, but upon their return to the caravan he did give Stiles his first dose of foxglove tea. His next days were spent in complete misery, his body desperately trying to purge the foxglove in any way it could. Stiles could barely move, shaking uncontrollably and sweating until the bedding was completely sodden, writhing with the sensation of his veins feeling filled with fire. 

His only relief had come from Peter, who began doting on him after the second day. Peter pressed chilled cloths to his forehead, cleaned away the sweat and carefully poured water into his mouth. When the pain was gone but Stiles was still too weak to move, Peter held him in his lap and fed him, suddenly patient as a saint. Stiles had wanted to hate him, was determined to hate him, but in those moments he craved Peter’s touch and comfort. 

After that, Peter expected Stiles to be sweet to him. He allowed for some playful jests so long as they never questioned his ownership, but Stiles took care to keep Peter happy. He rode the man’s cock like a seasoned whore but mewled like a freshly deflowered virgin. He pampered Peter, rubbed his shoulders, rolled his cigarettes, fixed him a drink after his long day. He’d beg Peter to bring him along when he worked, told him he felt safer when they were close, and for a while things were somewhat comfortable. A happy Peter was affectionate and playful, he was more accommodating of Stiles’ whims and wishes.

It could only last so long though, before Stiles began to feel that familiar prickle beneath his skin. The need to run, the need to be free. Peter’s punishments had done their part, he feared the tea but mostly the cage. Feared being locked up like the poor beast in the tent. He woke sometimes with a pounding heart, breath frantic and joints tight as though they’d been locked in place inside the cage for days on end. Peter would gently caress his back, pull him into his arms and tell him he was safe, but it only made Stiles want to retch. He knew he had to get away, but was choked with the fear that Peter would only find him again. 

It took months for Peter to leave Stiles unattended in the caravan again, and Stiles knew it was a test. He played the perfect little kept boy, splayed naked on the quilt when Peter returned, legs spreading in eager invitation. It took time, but Peter gradually allowed Stiles to choose if he wanted to remain in the caravan during the day, so long as he kept quiet. Stiles took advantage of his time to read Peter’s books and acquaint himself with the herbs in Peter’s cabinet. 

The night he was to make his move, Stiles filled Peter’s bottle of whisky with crushed opium poppy, belladonna, and an imposing looking purple flower which Peter had only labeled with “Derek.” If Peter used the flower on his beast, it was likely potent enough to put Peter down at least long enough to allow Stiles to slip away. Once he’d poured in the crushed herbs, he shook the bottle furiously until everything had sufficiently dissolved so that it didn’t look suspicious. 

Peter preferred to keep him naked, so Stiles lay on his belly as he usually did when it came time for his master to return. Stiles focused on keeping his breathing calm and even, letting his hands tap against the bedding to rid himself of some nervous energy until he heard Peter’s key in the lock. He looked up when Peter came in, leaned into the touch when Peter stroked a hand through his hair and asked him how his day was.

“Dull,” Stiles huffed, letting his head flop back down as Peter turned to undress. “Shouldn’t have stayed inside all day, I kept hoping you’d come check on me so I could go with you.”

Peter chuckled as he draped his shirt over the chair before removing the keys from around his neck and depositing them on his dressing table. Stiles couldn’t help the thrill that went through him at the apparent misstep. Peter rarely left his keys in the open, preferring instead to keep them on his person or hidden away, and it was a real advantage. 

“I’ll bring you along tomorrow, darling, don’t fret.” 

He belted his robe and prepared Stiles a simple supper, setting his bottle of whisky on the table as he did so. Stiles forced himself not to look at it, knowing Peter could read his emotions like they were printed on his forehead. He instead busied himself with eating, stuffing his mouth until there was no room for him to even speak. 

Peter arched a brow at him, bemused as he watched him eat. “Hungry?”

Stiles nodded. “I didn’t realize until now.”

Peter’s fingers played over the neck of his whisky bottle, and Stiles choked when he swallowed too much on reflex. Peter pounded his back, squeezing his nape affectionately before slumping down into his own seat with a heavy sigh. He poured himself a drink, tipping the bottle towards Stiles to offer him some as well. 

Stiles shook his head. “I don’t like how it burns.”

Peter chuckled again, shaking his head. “That’s half the appeal, pet.”

Stiles felt the room dim around him as he watched Peter take the first sip, eyes trained on the man’s throat as he held the liquor in his mouth before swallowing. He half expected Peter to look at him, know what he’d done, but the man simply took another long drink. Then another. 

Stiles fiddled with the remains of his supper, asked Peter about when they would move on to another carnival, if they could go somewhere warmer. He worried that he hadn’t used enough herbs to be effective, though any more surely would have made their addition obvious, until Peter’s tongue tripped over a word as he spoke. He narrowed his eyes at his own slip up, confusion knitting his brow. It happened a few more times before his eyelids began to droop in sudden want of sleep, and his head swayed as he fixed Stiles with a cold accusatory glare. 

“What have you been up to, little kit?” 

Stiles stilled at the look in Peter’s eyes, dark and ominous. He opened his mouth to deny the suggestion, but couldn’t find his voice, too seized with panic when Peter’s gaze slithered towards the cage. He stood with a jerk when Peter reached a sluggish hand towards him, almost tripping over his spilled chair. Peter was shaking then, likely from a combination of blind fury and the herbal concoction. 

“You will never….leave….that cage….” Peter swore through clenched teeth as he struggled to his feet, his legs buckling beneath him as the herbs finally began to take affect. 

Stiles took what might likely be his only chance and darted towards the dressing table, fingers snatching at Peter’s shirt and the keys. He scrambled away from the older man’s grasping hands and backed quickly towards the door. He didn’t waste time on parting words for there was no way to know how long his hodgepodge potion would incapacitate his captor. Instead he immediately darted out of the caravan, pausing only to lock it from the outside before he immediately took off running. He tugged the shirt on to give his naked body some cover, managing to fasten just enough buttons with unsteady fingers to keep it somewhat closed. His eyes darted about the carnival grounds, blessedly quiet in the late hours. No one had seen him outside his fox skin, but he was sure he made quite a scandalous sight, and couldn’t risk being spotted and detained by a would be savior. 

There was a dense forest straight again, for which Stiles wanted to sob in gratitude. His vision clouded and chest tightened with a rush of heady anxiety, and he paused only long enough to take a ragged breath and clear his eyes. When he looked up again, simple chance found the red tent directly in his line of vision. 

Stiles immediately recognized the beast’s tent. His fingers playing around the cord of keys he still clutched, body and heart torn with clashing desires. Every passing second counted against him, and while he needed to continue on to gain as much distance as possible, all Stiles could think of was the pain in that wretched beast’s eyes. The wolf was as much a prisoner as Stiles, and though it had a fierce reputation, Stiles pitied it. No wild thing deserved a lifetime in a cage. 

Stiles cursed his own stupidity under his breath as he sprinted towards the tent.

The tent was dark inside, but Stiles could see the ghostly eyes the moment he tugged open the tarp. “I expect you to not eat me immediately if I help you,” he huffed under his breath as he fumbled with the key in the lock, cursing when the first key didn’t fit. He breathed deep to calm his shaking hands and then tried the next. His heart seized when the key turned and the lock clicked, his hands freezing a scant second against the bars. “Don’t make me regret this,” he begged as he opened the cage door. 

He could hear the wolf rise, shivers prickling up his spine when it let loose a low growl barely a foot from Stiles. He clenched his eyes shut, expecting sharp teeth and claws to immediately carve into his flesh, but instead felt fur alarmingly high on his arm as the wolf brushed past him towards the entrance of the tent. Stiles’ eyes flew open to find the wolf standing there, silhouetted by moonlight and despite the absurdity of such a notion, appeared to be waiting for Stiles. 

“Go!” Stiles hissed at it, shooing the beast with a flail of hands when it remained motionless. “Hurry, we don’t have much time.”

The massive wolf only moved when Stiles finally took off once more towards the trees, immediately chasing after him. Stiles had just enough presence of mind to realize how foolish running from a wolf was, but he supposed that if he had to fail in his escape, being ripped to pieces held more appeal than being caught by Peter. The wolf didn’t attack him though, merely kept pace with him as he dashed for the trees. 

The forest floor was covered with twigs and debris which cut cruelly into Stiles’ feet as he ran, and though it hurt he didn’t shift into his fox skin. Not only would he lose his shirt and only form of cover, he was worried the wolf would see his fox as prey. Despite the legends Peter had spun about it having a taste for human flesh, it had not yet attacked him, but a fox might hold more allure. 

Stiles’ chest burned from holding such a swift pace for so long, the cold night air sharp in his throat as he panted, stinging his lungs like nettles, but he didn’t dare slow down. Branches whipped across his face, cutting across his arms as he raised them, but he kept going. 

All of a sudden the wolf dashed ahead a few paces, giving some glimpse into its true prowess. Stiles figured it was finally taking its leave and continued on his own path until he heard a short bark. He came to a shaky stop, his trembling legs tripping him up until he fell over in a heap in the leaves. Upon righting himself, he found the wolf stopped in its tracks and trained on him with glowing eyes. Stiles held his hands up as the wolf bared its teeth and stalked forward with a bowed head, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. “We made- a deal-” he rasped, his levity lost on the animal before him. 

The wolf stared at him, head still bowed as it turned and trotted a few paces, only to look back over its shoulder at him, expectant. 

Stiles heaved himself back to his feet, dirt and leaves clinging to his sweaty skin. He watched the wolf take a few more paces before looking back yet again and letting out another clipped bark, almost like it was beckoning Stiles to follow. 

Stiles took a careful step forward, then another as the wolf watched him. He was likely losing his mind to think the animal intended to lead him somewhere, but Stiles’ instincts all urged him to follow. Perhaps the creature could sense something he couldn’t in human form, perhaps it truly did understand that Stiles had saved it and felt some sort of kinship in turn. 

As soon as he stepped towards the wolf, the beast took off again, keeping several paces in front of Stiles to lead the way, stopping only if Stiles faltered. They kept on in this manner long into the night, until Stiles’ legs tingled, his muscles past burning and now almost beyond his control. He didn’t know how long they’d been running for, the woods still thick but the moon now shining through clear straight above them. Stiles’ teeth clattered as he shivered, arms wrapped around himself to try and retain the slightest warmth. He staggered through the woods behind the wolf, who infuriatingly enough didn’t seem to be slagging in the slightest. 

Stiles tripped over a root, sprawling inelegantly to the forest floor. He lay still, his cheek pressed to the cold earth as he gasped for breath, his body finally letting on just how taxed it was. He wanted to slip into his fox skin, but was so drained he doubted he’d manage, and with the remaining possibility that the wolf would mistake him as prey, the effort hardly seemed worth the risk. 

A cold wet nose pressed against the side of his throat, nudging him. Stiles lolled his head to the side to gaze up at the massive hulking beast above him. It leaned down again to nudge him, pushing against his shoulder to urge him to stand. 

“I can’t,” Stiles wheezed, entire body shaking. “Can’t go further.” He drew his knees up, tucking his legs closer to his body against the night’s chill. 

The wolf pawed the earth beside him, nosing him once more. 

Stiles shook his head, eyes wetting as he curled further inward. The reality of all that had happened finally consuming him until he was shaking both from anxiety and the cold. “I’m sorry...I can’t.”

The wolf paced a moment, mouth open and panting as it gazed out into the trees behind them. It circled Stiles’ prone form, and for a moment Stiles thought it would continue on alone. Then there was a huff behind him, and the wolf’s nose was back against his throat, seemingly urging him to sit. Stiles groaned but just managed it, his arms braced against the ground to hold him in place as he scowled at the wolf. “If I thought you wouldn’t eat me...I’d be a fox now and all toasty warm in my fur...this is all your fault.”

But then the wolf was settling itself on the ground, pressing up close against his side. Heat seemed to radiate from the creature as it curled around him, it’s massive paws resting atop his tucked knees. Too tired for the astonishment this action properly deserved, Stiles let himself fall face first against the wolf’s warm belly, unable to stop the moan which slipped between his lips at the relief of the much needed warmth. 

“I take it back,” he sighed, fingers twined in the thick yet surprisingly soft fur. “You’re not so bad for a sourwolf.” He reached a hand out to stroke one silky ear, fingers trembling from fatigue as they trailed down its head to it’s neck until he encountered something hard and cold. Stiles frowned and he craned his neck to look, realizing that thin metal links encircled the wolf’s neck like some sort of collar. It felt gritty with some sort of film or dirt, though Stiles doubted it could be from their time in the forest. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter, the collar was Peter’s last lingering claim on the poor beast. He frowned in distaste and carefully began to work it up the wolf’s thick neck and over its head. 

“I know, I know,” Stiles soothed when the wolf whined, but he kept going until it was off. It was heavy in his hands, and Stiles used the last of his strength to hurl the chain into the woods as far from them as possible. He didn’t bother to listen to it land before collapsing back against the wolf’s belly with a heavy sigh. The beast curled further around him, encasing him in a soothing warmth which calmed his spinning mind enough to finally lull him into a much needed sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles woke with a start, wrists jerking from the cruel hold of phantom hands; Peter’s twisted image fading from tear clouded eyes with every blink. Stiles sat up, head ducked between his knees as he took several calming breaths, repeating again and again that it had just been a dream. Peter wasn’t there. Peter had not found him. Stiles was still safe in the woods with-

Stiles’ head jerked as he looked about for the wolf, the great beast gone from his side long enough to leave the earth beneath him cool and damp with dew. He rolled forward onto his knees, arms braced to hold himself up so he could scan the area for the wolf to no avail. 

“Derek!” he called into the trees with a choked off cry, finally remembering the name Peter had given the wolf. Despite the trepidation he’d felt in the animal’s presence only a day ago, Stiles felt compelled to summon it back. The mere thought that he’d lost of his sole companion raked through his chest with sharp panic. 

“Derek, come back!” 

Stiles huffed as he settled back on his haunches, distracting himself by taking quick inventory of his own ragged appearance. While settling himself with slow soothing breaths, he took the time to button his shirt properly. It was several sizes too large, the sleeves reaching the ends of his long fingers and the tails brushing against the tops of his thighs. He was indecently exposed by any sort of bend or stretch, but it afforded him a bit of covering and was better than nothing. 

After a moment he stood carefully, wincing as his weight settled onto his aching feet. They were blistered and raw from his frenzied trek through the forest the night before, and quite tender. He healed a bit faster than the average human, but not fast enough that his injuries would not burden him in the day to come. Though he wanted nothing more than to settle back down onto to cool grass, he knew he should resume his journey. He shivered at the thought that the wolf had moved on because it sensed something Stiles couldn’t anticipate in his human form. 

He was debating whether to risk losing his shirt to shift into fox skin or stay in human form when there was a rustle in the trees at his side. Stiles felt the flesh at his neck prickle, sore legs brimming with the desire to take flight as he prepared himself for the worst. His mind traitorously supplied him with his first memory of seeing Peter spy on him in the woods, his body momentarily freezing like a startled deer as it had then. He was tensing in preparation to bolt ahead when the wolf emerged from the brush. It stilled upon seeing him, head bowed low with a rabbit dangling lifeless between its jaws. 

Stiles let out a loud shaky breath, a heady rush of solace sending him to his knees, an unsteady hand pressing against his own rapidly beating heart. “Christ!” he bit out, voice frail around the edges as his head fell back in overwhelming relief both that he hadn’t been discovered and that his furry companion had returned to him once more. Wetness prickled at his eyes, which he rubbed away bitterly with the heel of one hand. 

“I thought you’d left me.” He reached forward with grasping fingers, not knowing what he wanted until they were curling tight into the wolf’s thick fur. It had abandoned its meal, moved instead to stand before Stiles and allowed the boy to clutch to him. The wolf lowered its head, its soft hot tongue lapping carefully at Stiles’ dirt and tear stained face until the boy’s attack of nerves began to ebb. It nuzzled against Stiles’ neck, nosing the underside of his jaw to draw his attention back to the rabbit on the ground beside them.

“Did you find some breakfast?” Stiles asked, wiping at his sticky face with a sniffle. He kept one hand on the wolf’s back, fingers carding through the fur until the wolf padded back to its felled prey. It returned with the rabbit held gingerly between its teeth, only to drop it into Stiles’ lap. 

Stiles stared down at the rabbit, the body still warm from the fresh kill, the blood still wet where it was smeared about the punctured teeth marks. When Stiles didn’t react, the wolf nudged it closer like an offering, licking its jowls as it sat back to watch him. 

Stiles’ eyes shot wide, mouth hanging as he realized the creature’s intent. “For me?” he asked, pointing to his own chest in disbelief. He found it beyond reason that such affectionate and doting behavior could be solely due to any sort of training Peter would have provided. The man was cruel to those who didn’t obey, and from Peter’s own admission Derek had never been completely submissive. Stiles knew little of wolves beyond to keep a good distance from their snapping jaws, but even he knew such behavior was not natural. Not that Derek was any natural wolf, one glance at him and even a fool could see that-

It was then that Stiles first noticed Derek’s eyes. Whether due to the daylight or Stiles’ rattled nerves, he’d failed to recognize the absence of the ghoulish glow. They were hazel, likely a rare occurrence on a wolf, and unlike any eyes Stiles had ever seen on man or beast. They were pale but a whorl of green, brown, and gold. They bored into Stiles, soulful and deep in a way which felt hauntingly human. 

Stiles stroked a finger down the wolf’s nose, mouth hanging open in wonder at lovely eyes staring right back at him. “You’re beautiful,” he mumbled, the words tumbling from his lips before he realized his intent to utter them. He was though. The simple change had left Derek completely transformed, and Stiles couldn’t quite see him as the same creature any longer. He continued to stroke Derek’s head until the wolf lowered his muzzle to nudge once more at the dead rabbit. 

“Not much I can do with this in human form,” Stiles admitted with a sigh. “There’s nothing here to start a fire, and I don’t think I could manage it raw.” While he knew the wolf couldn’t understand his exact words, Stiles felt a certain level of comfort in talking to him. He felt less alone, and the little tilt of Derek’s head at his regretful tone made Stiles wonder if the sentiment was possibly understood. Cupping the limp rabbit in his hands, he gently laid it back at the wolf’s feet. “Here, you have it.” 

The wolf gazed down at the offering, licking his jowls as he returned his attention to Stiles and whined. 

Stiles laughed, petting Derek’s soft black fur and gesturing once more to the rabbit in a display of permission. “I could as a fox, but not as a human,” he insisted. “You eat up, I’ll manage something.” 

Derek finally sank down to the ground with a huff and began to devour his kill, the rabbit kept in place between his massive paws. His teeth easily shredded the flesh, bits of blood goring his teeth as he ate. 

Stiles drew up his legs, his chin resting on one knee as he watched the wolf eat. He found himself petting the wolf’s head idly, fingers carding through the silky fur at the top of Derek’s head. “What kind of a name is Derek for a wolf,” Stiles mused to himself, lighting up happily when the wolf glanced up at the sound of his own name. 

A small piece of flesh flicked from wolf’s mouth to land wetly against Stiles’ bare leg, warm wetness of it twisting his mouth into a grimace. He flicked it off, rubbing his skin clear of the poor rabbit’s blood before standing with a groan. His own stomach was woefully empty, and he would do well to collect some additional rations for the rest of the day if at all possible. Not that he had anything to carry them in-

Stiles had not taken more than two steps before he heard a low warning growl from behind him. He turned to find Derek’s hazel eyes fixed on him, a torn strip of rabbit hanging from between his clenched jowls. Stiles furrowed his brow at the wolf, not sure what he’d done to finally incur the animal’s wrath, but Derek somehow seemed somehow appeased, and returned to his meal. 

When Stiles tried to walk again, the same thing happened, a low growl of displeasure rumbled from deep within Derek until Stiles stopped and turned back to face him. “Am I not permitted to eat until you’ve finished your own meal, you selfish beast?” Stiles chided with a snort, the mere idea completely ridiculous but apparently not beyond the realm of possibility, as the same thing happened the third time Stiles tried to leave their clearing. Stiles huffed out his defeat, mumbling about leaving the clutches of a madman only to wind up lost in the woods with a needy grump of a wolf. 

He flopped gracelessly back down to the mossy earth, coming to rest propped up on his elbow so he could watch his companion. “Such a sourwolf” he mused, plucking a blade of grass and twirling it between his fingers. He stuck it in his mouth, teeth taking an questionable nibble before he sighed dramatically. “Happy now? You’ve got me eating grass like a goat. Shall I bleat for you?” 

Derek, thoroughly unimpressed by Stiles’ grousing, kept right on eating. When he was finally finished, he stood and shook out his fur, looking back to Stiles as he licked the last of the rabbit from between his teeth. They wandered through the forest together, Derek leading the way and Stiles babbling idly as he inspected various plants for taste and likely edibility. So far he’d managed a few wild mushrooms, nibbled on a handful of clover and choked down two dandelions before he decided the bitter taste wasn’t worth it. Stiles flailed with delight when he found a bush of wild berries that hadn’t yet spoiled from the cold. He plucked them from their vines by the handful, their tart juices bursting on his tongue until he was practically moaning. 

His hunger abated for the time being, Stiles wiped the juices from his mouth and began collecting some fruit to take along. He held up the bottom of the shirt to create a sort of pouch with the cloth, effectively baring his genitals to his traveling companion. “I suppose modesty means little to you,” he offered in weak apology, dropping berry after berry into his shirt. He felt rather ridiculous with his chest clothed and manhood free to the morning breeze, but doubted walking through the woods completely nude would prove to be any better. 

They continued on, Stiles occasionally popping a berry into his mouth or stooping to collect bits of edible foliage from the forest floor. He followed dutifully behind Derek, glad to be relieved of leadership after his last escape attempts had all ended so fruitlessly. The few times his attention was caught off guard and he lagged behind, Derek called him back with a short bark or clipped howl. Stiles felt he was being scolded, and amused himself by imagining the words the wolf would snap at him if he had the power of speech. 

The amiable mood faded when they stumbled upon a small community just beyond the forest. Stiles stood stock still, one arm braced against a tree as he peered through the brush at the sleepy little village before them. It was small, only a handful of cottages and several large vegetable patches. There were strips of meat drying and wild turkeys hung waiting to be plucked. A simple place likely on the outskirts of a larger town for want of privacy and farmland. It would be a good place to find food and possibly something to wear, if he could steal it without being spotted. The few people he could make out were all occupied with chores or tasks, too far to notice a boy and a wolf hiding in the brush. He would have felt relieved by such a find his first time running away, but though he was tired and cold he stood dumbly, simply staring. Derek nudged for him to continue, but Stiles shook his head as panic welled up within him. 

This was always where Peter caught him, just when he’d reached a town and dared to hope that he had actually escaped. The village felt too familiar to him, curdling any sense of comfort into something far more treacherous. He’d turned on his heel and ignored Derek’s yip as he continued back into the forest, berries falling forgotten to the ground. Derek trotted beside him, huffing in discontent before finally relenting and resuming his duties as scout once more, leading them in a new direction. 

As the sun fell and the forest dimmed with the encroaching twilight, Stiles felt increasingly uneased. He chewed at the dirty cuff of his shirt, mind racing with worries that his time was up, that he’d fail again. The shadows began to play tricks on him, twisting into lurking figures and grasping hands, until Stiles was stumbling and faltering with almost every other step. 

The settling sun brought with it night’s chill. Between the cold and his aching feet, Stiles was ready to find somewhere to settle in for the evening. He called to Derek, tapping his leg to summon the wolf back to him. Derek stood with his nose in the air, sniffing a moment until he caught wind of a scent which drew him further into the trees. He barked for Stiles to follow before trotting forward at a quicker pace. Stiles rushed to keep up, cursing when he stepped on a sharp branch. He was about to chide the wolf for going too fast, but abruptly stopped when he recognized the sound of flowing water nearby. 

Just past a thick patch of woodland brush, Stiles found himself standing before a shallow embankment, a small but steady brook babbling through. Derek was already lapping up a much needed drink, and Stiles quickly followed suit. He dropped to his knees and leant forward, drawing the cold water to his lips with cupped hands. He took careful sips, longing to wash the grime from his body but mindful of the steadily dropping temperature. He could bathe in the morning, but for the time being he needed shelter. 

His thirst quenched, Stiles quickly surveyed the area. Several trees had been toppled by the receding embankment, most falling to rest on the opposite side of the bank. The moon shone brightly down through a break in the canopy, illuminating a tree which had fallen away from the brook, creating a little hollow where it had been uprooted. Derek followed close behind as he went to inspect it, sitting on his haunches while Stiles threw a stone into the hollow to startle any possible wildlife within to movement. When he heard nothing, Stiles gingerly crawled forward on his knees, testing the leaves with a stick until he was satisfied that there was nothing hiding inside the burrow. He turned over his shoulder to Derek, who watched him with a curious tilt of his massive head. 

“All clear Sourwolf,” Stiles said, a playful grin spreading over his lips. He lay down in the leaves, which were blessedly dry, and patted the bare spot beside him. Derek quickly followed suit, curling behind Stiles much like he had the night before. Out of the wind and with the wolf’s warm belly heating his back, Stiles felt quite snug and content. He drew up his knees to give Derek more room to curl about him. The earth about them was musty and damp, but with a pleasing freshness with made Stiles’ heart surge with hope. He happily breathed in the dirt, moss, and trees around them, the natural elements singing to him of success and freedom. 

The crown of Stiles’ head was tucked beneath Derek’s muzzle, and he raised a hand to idly stroke the side of the wolf’s snout. “My father died almost ten years ago,” he found himself saying softly. “He was my best friend, and I haven’t found another to make me feel safe like he did until you, and you’re a wolf.” He huffed a bitter laugh to himself, his sadness only fading when Derek began to lick at his fingers with warm wet strokes of his tongue. “I’m glad to have you,” Stiles admitted, wishing the wolf could understand. “I’d forgotten what it was to feel safe with someone else...even if you are a Sourwolf.”

Derek pushed Stiles’ head back down into the leaves with his snout, like he was urging him to settle for bed. Stiles laughed, letting himself be moved and snuggling back against the wolf. “Someday I’d like to show you my fox,” he confessed sleepily. “We could run through the woods together...would you still recognize me?”

Derek’s breath came in even bursts above his head, but he otherwise didn’t move. 

Stiles sighed, letting his eyes close. “I wish you could talk to me.” 

\------

Stiles woke the next morning to the sounds of splashing. He was alone again, but this time did not worry at Derek’s absence. His body felt heavy, almost drunk on the deep sleep it had so desperately been in need of. He crawled out of their burrow and stretched with a groan, surprised that it was already so late in the morning that the sun was shining overhead and the cool dampness had given way to a warmth unusual for so late in the year. Stiles stood a moment, letting the sun beat down on his face. The brook made for an opening in the canopy, large patches of light heating the grass at his feet. 

More splashing further down the brook caught his attention, and Stiles saw Derek drag himself from the brook, his dark fur matted and heavy with water. He stood on the embankment and shook himself, water flying in every direction. Stiles worked out the twinge in his shoulder as he moved to Derek, laughing at his wolf companions drowned appearance. 

“Enjoy your dip, Sourwolf?” He laughed when Derek shook again in seeming retaliation, flinging beads of water at Stiles until he dashed away in retreat. Pleased at Stiles’ forfeit, Derek ambled to one of the patches of sun and sunk down to the grass, his chin resting lazily atop his leg. 

Stiles carefully stepped down the embankment to the water’s edge, stumbling slightly from imbalance as he reached out with one foot to test the temperature. It wasn’t as cold as he’d feared, so he quickly dragged his shirt over his head and stepped in. The water was deeper than it had first appeared, rocks slick under his feet from algae. He almost toppled more than once as he made his way to the deepest section, his arms flailing as he righted himself. There was a large flat stone near the center, so Stiles sat upon it, letting out a triumphant cry when he finally managed to sit without falling face first into the brook. 

Stiles soaked his shirt and used it to wipe down his arms and legs, took handfuls of water to splash against his face and rinse his hair. His feet and legs took a bit of work, but finally he was pink and clean from head to toe, his spirits lifted exponentially. He flicked some water at Derek, giggling madly to himself when the wolf sneezed from surprise. Derek bared his teeth at him, but it hardly held the same gravitas as it had their first night together in the woods. 

With Derek ignoring him, Stiles returned to his task at hand and cleaned his shirt, scrubbing it against the rock to lighten the darker stains. Once satisfied, he wrong the shirt as best he could and tossed it over his shoulder so he could carefully make his way back to the bank. Safely ashore, he shook out his shirt and draped it over a low hanging branch to let it dry, loosely tying the arms to keep it in place. He then flopped down beside Derek in the grass. 

He hummed happily to himself, the sun warm on his slightly chilled skin. He rested his arms above his head, fingers idly tugging at blades of grass. He smirked when he looked over to find Derek slumped on his side, eyes shut and paws crossed over one another. His fur was almost dry, the slight breeze ruffling the fluff by his belly. Stiles closed his eyes with a lazy grin, relishing the heat on his face as he imagined chasing Derek through the woods as a fox, bounding through the foliage in time with the massive wolf. He pictured them together back in the tree hollow, Stiles a small tuft of red tucked against inside the curve of Derek’s solid frame. He wondered if it would feel different.

\------

Later in day, they came upon a stone cottage encircled by a low stone wall. They approached it carefully, crouching beside the wall the survey the area. A massive stack of logs was piled by the side of the cottage, many grouped into bundles secured with twine. A stump rested beside the pile, chips and grooves marring it where an ax had struck repeatedly after splitting chunks of wood. The sheer quantity made Stiles suspect the cottage belonged to a woodcutter, though from the lack of movement inside the cottage the lack of ax from the stump he seemed to not be home. Stiles reasoned he was too far off though, due to the smoke billowing from the chimney, and therefore preferred not to tarry long. He urged Derek along the wall with him, crouching low as he crawled towards the back of the cottage. There was a clothesline there, and Stiles wanted to cry out with glee when among the clothes drying on the line he spotted a couple pairs of trousers, as well as some shirts and two quilts. 

Stiles wasn’t the most remorseful thief, but he had always tried not to take beyond his own need. Quick and sly as he would in his fox skin, Stiles slipped over the wall and slunk to the line. He ignored the shirts completely, his own still serviceable, but tugged down a pair of trousers and a quilt. Just as he was about to turn, movement near the window beneath the thatch roof caught his eye. 

Stiles crouched low on instinct, but quickly discovered that the movement had been strips of dried venison left to cure beneath the cover of the roof. He licked his lips in hunger as he carefully gazed through the window into the small cottage, but still saw no indication of a presence inside. He padded forward on light feet, staying crouched well below the window. It was easy enough to reach up and grasp a few quick handfuls, hunching down to listen for signs of discovery when he’d finished. It seemed fortune had finally taken pity on him, as the cottage remained just as quiet and barren as before. 

Strips of meat in his fists and his bundle clutched close to his chest by both arms, Stiles scurried back to the wall. Hopping over the wall once more he immediately dashed back into the trees, Derek hot on his heels. 

They didn’t stop until they were well out of the range of the still unaccounted for woodsman, and Stiles was nearly bent double with the force of his heaving breaths. He shook the meat at Derek triumphantly, tossing the wolf a strip before tearing into one of his own, shoving it gracelessly into his mouth until his cheeks were stuffed full. It was salty and rich, with just a hint of added spice, and Stiles barely waited to swallow his first mouthful before tearing off another chunk with eager teeth. Derek seemed to approve the find as well, happily claiming any piece Stiles held out to him between careful teeth. Stiles saved the last few pieces, rolling them up in one shirtsleeve to keep them secure. He then unfurled the quilt and the trousers for closer inspection. 

The quilt had been the smaller of the two, easier to carry but still able to provide much needed warmth. It was darned and patched but soft with wear, and Stiles rubbed it against his cheek with a blissful sigh. The trousers were much too large, slipping right down his slim hips even when fastened. He managed to tear a young vine down from a tree and tied it about his waist to keep them hoisted. While far from perfect, they would be more than serviceable for a time. Trousers secured, he wrapped the quilt atop his head and around his shoulders, snuggling into it with a happy sigh. 

Derek was sitting back on his haunches, staring up at him with a curious expression. Stiles wiggled his shoulders to express his delight at their new acquisitions, teeth bared in a wide grin. “Though I do hate to deprive you the visage of my bare posterior and bollocks, it feels divine to be clothed again.” And it did, for more than his comfort and modesty. Peter had preferred to keep him naked, Stiles often forgoing his own wants and comforts to keep the other man happy. Peter also had the habit of keeping him unclothed as a display of his own power and reminder of Stiles’ vulnerability. It was one small thing he could still take from Stiles when the boy didn’t play along as desired, and finally being dressed again helped him feel he’d regained another part of his autonomy.

Despite the warmth of the morning, clouds above brought with them a biting chill. The air was heavy with moisture, and Stiles worried they would be caught in a downpour. They would have to seek shelter, or create it with what the forest offered them. Derek wandered a bit while Stiles investigated a patch of wild mushrooms, breaking off the best looking and stuffing them down his shirt for safekeeping. The ground about them was steadily growing more rocky, but Derek kept leading Stiles at a confident gait, nose high in the air as he sniffed. 

They eventually found themselves standing before an exposed wall of limestone sunken into the side of a steep hill. There were stone formations surrounding, but this rock face was taller than Stiles twice over, and contained several inlets and dips where it had been weathered away. It had likely been the site of an old riverbed, long since dried up. Stiles noticed a cluster of roots and vines where a tree had once taken root and tangled with the stone, and when he pushed some of the brush away he found a small opening behind them. It was a cave, nothing vast but large enough for them both to lie stretched. Stiles’ eyes closed tight in fervent thanks to whomever was watching over him, for he could not believe his own luck. 

The sky was dark and ominous now, the clouds rolling in thick with the wind. Stiles beckoned Derek into the cave just as he felt the first heavy drop of rain brush past his cheek. He pulled the quilt from his shoulders and balled it into his arms before ducking in beside the wolf. The entrance was wide enough to let the light in, allowing Stiles to see his surroundings and get himself and Derek situated for what he assumed would be the whole night. 

The little cavern floor was covered with piles of dry leaves which crunched beneath them but proved quite comfortable. It felt more dry inside than their little burrow had the night before, for which Stiles was extremely grateful. Derek’s body heat alone was already warming him, so Stiles tugged off his shirt and lay it out beside him, resting his bits of mushroom and meat atop it. He handed a piece of meat to Derek, who ate it quickly while he watched Stiles’ every movement with his steady hazel gaze. He untied his makeshift belt and slid out of his trousers, preferring to keep them clean. Between the quilt and Derek’s body heat, he had little worry of keeping warm that night. Stiles gathered all the leaves into a little nest beside Derek and immediately settled in, his upper body resting back against Derek’s side and the quilt draped over his lap. 

Derek turned to nuzzle against the side of his throat, sniffling with hot tufts of air. Stiles laughed from the slight tickle of it, unconsciously leaning into the touch. He nibbled at a piece of mushroom, fingers still feintly carrying the smell and spice of the dried meat. He stretched out his long legs, bare toes peeking out from beneath the quilt to brush against the stone wall. “This is cozy,” he sighed. “Nice and dry, not too dark, I’ve got you and a blanket for warmth...maybe we could stay here forever, just the two of us.”

He reached out another strip of meat to Derek, the wolf’s tongue lapping around Stiles’ fingertips as he took it. “We’d need fire for the winter I suppose,” he mused, curling on his side so Derek could rest his head on Stiles’ folded knees. He let one of Derek’s ears slip through his fingers, the pattering of rain beginning to sound outside the cave. “Maybe by the time the snow comes, I’ll have managed to get you used to my fox; then we could live here quite happily. I could hunt with you, be warm in my furs, and then after a long day of frolicking through the woods we could come back here and burrow close for the night.”

Derek began licking the palm of his hand, as though in agreement. Stiles let him, his smile fond as Derek continued to bathe his fingers. They lay together quietly for a time, listening to the rain and watching the light fade with the setting sun. Stiles tucked himself as close to Derek as possible and pulled the quilt around them both. On impulse, he leaned up to kiss the top of Derek’s head to wish him good night. He drew the quilt up tight about them before resting the side of his cheek on Derek’s side once more. “I’ll never let him put you in that cage again,” he vowed, fingers twining in the wolf’s thick fur. 

As he drifted off to sleep, he resolved to show Derek his fox in the morning. For the first time, he genuinely believed things were going to be alright. His earlier anxieties were far from mind, and all he could see were possibilities of things to come. 

 

He woke the next morning to warmth beneath him and a firm weight resting over his waist. Stiles blinked twice, sleep still heavy in his eyes as he nuzzled against Derek, but he froze at the absence of familiar coarse fur against his cheek. Stiles opened his eyes to find not black fur, but pale skin. His head shot up, mouth hanging open as he realized that he was lying atop a man’s chest...a naked man’s chest, one of his legs tangled between two very naked legs and an arm wrapped firm about his waist. 

Stiles scrambled back with a curse, slamming against the cavern wall and dragging the quilt with him. The man was up like a shot, crouched low on his haunches with his hands braced against the cavern floor. His dark brows were furrowed in concern at Stiles, who gaped back at him with a slack jawed stare. His chiseled jaw was covered in dark stubble to match the shock of black hair atop his head. His nose was straight and elegant, an almost hawk-like hook at the end. The stranger’s body was thick with lean muscle and his cock….dear god Stiles couldn’t help but stare at the magnificent length which hung thick between his powerful thighs. Even the man’s prick was a thing of beauty.

Beautiful prick or no, this unknown man was naked in his cave where Derek had previously been and Derek...Derek was gone. 

“Who the hell are you?” Stiles demanded, treacherous voice cracking to betray his fear. “Where’s Derek...what did you do to him?”

The man’s head tilted in confusion, his face still somewhat hidden in shadow. 

“Where’s Derek?” Stiles demanded again, lashing out in frustration when the man remained silent and shoving hard against his muscled chest. 

His action seemed to pull the man from his trance. He looked down to where Stiles had pushed him, only to immediately lurch backwards in shock. He stumbled unsteadily to his hands and knees, panting hard while he looked down at his own limbs as though seeing them for the first time. He pressed his broad back firmly against the cave wall to stare at Stiles, his nostrils flaring with each heaving breath and his green eyes wide with panic. 

Familiar green eyes, pale and beautifully flecked with brown and gold. Eyes he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, but affixed to the wrong face.

Stiles’ own eyes widened in disbelief, his hand reaching of its own accord towards the skittish figure before him. 

“Derek?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay guys. RL has been a nightmare. My sister is currently being treated for cancer, and last week we found out that her daughter now has cancer as well. It's just thrown us for a loop and made focusing on anything really hard. This isn't beta-ed (except by my), so if there are any glaring errors, please let me know. Thanks so much for your patience, hope anyone reading continues to enjoy it. <3

Chapter 3

 

Stiles gazed upon Derek with slack jawed astonishment. He watched the man...and saints preserve him, Stiles could still not believe the Adonis before him was his wolf companion...stare down at his own body with a bewilderment to rival Stiles’ own. Derek brushed fingers across his own sculpted chest, his hands shaking as he held them up for careful wide-eyed inspection. His nostrils flared with every harsh exhale of breath, his thick expressive brows rounding in confusion.

Derek almost seemed to forget Stiles was there, his trembling fingertips brushing clumsily over his own nose and cheekbones before pressing against his mouth. By the time he pushed past his lips to feel the blunt human edges of his teeth, Derek’s chest was heaving with panic.

Stiles reached forward on instinct to calm him, his hands gentle where they came to rest on his companion’s muscled forearms. “It’s alright,” he whispered, soft and soothing as he would to a skittish child. 

Derek was startled from his stupor by Stiles’ voice and his eyes shot up, flashing that incandescent blue at him. Stiles jerked back with a gasp when Derek’s face rippled, features contorting with the change as his canines elongated and his brow began to protrude. Stiles’ breath caught as Derek’s elegant fingers curled, yellowed claws growing before his very eyes. 

Derek shook his head with a short roar of despair before quickly scrambling away from Stiles on unsteady limbs. He struggled from the cave on his hands and knees, movements jerky and unpracticed in this unfamiliar body. Once outside the cave he collapsed, rolling onto his back and arching as the change rippled through him, shifting him from his mutated half form to full wolf and then back to human. He growled and whimpered like it hurt him, the sounds seeming alien from his human tongue.

Stiles rushed forward on his own hands and knees, blanket and modesty forgotten, feeling impotent as he helplessly watched his companion writhe in agony and fear. He wanted to help, but worried he would spook the werewolf and drive him to respond on instinct.

Derek was a werewolf.

The realization was sudden and overwhelming, filling his head until he feared it would burst. Not only was the discovery a complete shock to himself, but it seemed to be beyond Derek’s own comprehension as well. The werewolf seemed unable to regain control of his change, his bones popping and cracking as he shifted from man to beast and back again. It was almost as though he had forgotten how.

Stiles then recalled the grimy collar he’d discarded their first night in the woods. He had assumed it was dirty from their excursion or from extended wear, but he now realized that it had likely been covered with a tincture as his own chain had been. It had trapped Derek as a wolf, but for how long? The longest Stiles had been kept in fox skin was three days, and while he’d felt somewhat disoriented when he finally returned to human form, he had no difficulty in doing so. He hadn’t forgotten what he was, but Derek looked at his own human hands as one might a ghost. 

Then, as though the man himself were whispering the words into his ear, Stiles remembered the words Peter had uttered the first time he’d brought Stiles into the beast’s tent. “Derek was too willful, too disobedient,” Peter had said. “So he stays in the cage.” 

How many years had it taken for Derek to forget there was a man beneath his wolf’s skin?

Derek was back in human form, hunched forward on his knees with his head in his hands. Casting aside his fear Stiles crept forward, boldly kneeling before Derek to stroke comforting fingers through his silky black hair. Derek flinched at the contact, his head jerking up in uncertainty, almost as though he trusted neither Stiles nor himself. 

“It’s alright,” Stiles promised over and over. “You’re safe.” He kept one hand in Derek’s hair and raised the other to his cheek, thumb caressing the skin above his scratchy stubble. Derek turned his face into the gentle touch, nostrils flaring against the soft inner skin of Stiles’ wrist as he sniffed. 

Derek’s shoulders slumped then, the tension melting away as he sniffed again. He grabbed Stiles’ wrist in a firm grip, his eyes drifting shut as he dragged his nose across Stiles’ skin and breathed him in. He whined high in his throat when Stiles tried to pull away, continuing to scent up Stiles’ arm until he reached his neck. His breath beat hot against Stiles’ throat when Derek sniffed him, until with a final sleepy nuzzle he let his head droop against the crux of Stiles’ shoulder. 

Stiles felt a surge of relief at Derek’s display of trust and wrapped the larger man up in his arms. They sat huddled together for some time, Stiles gently reminding him who he was and where they were, all the while carding fingers through Derek’s hair and gently rubbing his back. When his hunched position sent a twinge through his back, Stiles let go of Derek long enough to sink back against the cool grass beneath them. Derek watched him with bright yet cautious eyes, only moving when Stiles patted the earth besides him, the gesture accompanied by a gentle tug at the large man’s forearm. 

Derek came to rest beside Stiles as bid, but his posture remained rigid until Stiles turned to curl up next to him, an arm looping over Derek’s powerful chest. Stiles urged one of Derek’s arms to encircle him, guiding the other man to hold him in turn until Derek understood and drew him closer. They lay together, the warmth emanating from Derek’s body enough to chase night’s chill from rattling Stiles’ bones. Derek kept idly touching his own face and chest, free hand held up above him as he studied it by moonlight. He radiated loss, confusion, bewilderment; still out of sorts but kept relatively calm by Stiles’ familiar presence. 

“Are you alright?” Stiles finally asked, face tilted to gaze up at Derek. He watched the other man’s mouth open, his stubbled chin shifting as he worked his jaw and throat bobbing when he swallowed. He tried a few more times, though all that passed between his lips was a raspy grunt of frustration. 

Stiles idly rubbed over Derek’s chest, noting how the contact soothed the furrow between the other man’s brows. “You can’t speak, can you?” he said, which Derek confirmed with a subtle nod. The realization sank like a stone in his gut, and he fought back the reactional disappointment. Though he knew it to be selfish, Stiles lamented the loss of a conversational companion. He’d been happy enough to merely have the presence of another being in his company after facing months in relative isolation while in hiding from Peter, so having Derek in human form at all felt a veritable godsend. Still though, it was bittersweet to realize he still wouldn’t be able to hear another’s voice. 

“But you can understand me,” Stiles continued, his hand still moving against Derek’s heated skin. “You know what I’m saying to you, what I’ve been saying the last few days.”

Derek nodded again, eyes fixed up towards the night sky and the moon above them. 

“Well that’s something,” Stiles said with a sigh. “If you can understand me, you must have been able to assume human form in the past. At least...before Peter took you...”

Derek flinched, but nodded again. 

Stiles wanted to know more, but did not want to upset his companion further, hated seeing the pain shine behind Derek’s soulful eyes. He lay still beside Derek for some time, both of them examining the stars in companionable silence. Stiles wanted to return to their cozy cave and get out of the wind, but while he anticipated Derek would follow, he didn’t have the heart to ask the man to return to the cramped quarters. Stiles was only beginning to understand the true depth of the man’s captivity, and seeing Derek gaze at the sky like he hadn’t beheld it in years made Stiles’ chest tighten. 

He stood after quickly extricating himself, Derek immediately reaching for him until Stiles lay a gentle touch to his shoulder. “I’ll be right back,” he promised, dashing back to the cave to retrieve their pilfered quilt. Derek tracked his every move with careful intent, eyes wide and alert until Stiles returned to his side. Stiles fitted the blanket about them as best he could with one arm before resuming his place in the crook of Derek’s shoulder. Derek watched as he worked, his fingers flexing as though in mimicry Stiles’ motions. 

Once they were bundled beneath the quilt, Stiles felt Derek’s body slowly relax beside his own, his heartbeat decelerating until it was deep and even. His eyelids drooped before being jerked back open, as though he fought against his body’s insistence for sleep. Stiles imagined that Derek was afraid he would wake once more a wolf, and he himself was anxious to know if the man would be able to maintain human form in slumber. As he gazed upon the man’s regal profile, he couldn’t help but imagine Derek as a tragic prince in an old fable. A prince under a curse, trapped in the body of a wolf until a night when the moon was full and round, but doomed to resume his beastly form at dawn. 

Derek turned onto his side, urging Stiles to do the same. His knees tucked behind Stiles’, curving around him as he had when he was still in wolf form. Stiles wrapped his own hands around Derek’s and gave it gave it a reassuring squeeze before clutching it to his chest. Derek hummed a contented little growl into his nape, hot gusts ruffling the hairs there before he dragged his nose and cheek along the back of Stiles’ neck. He sniffed a few times, then continued his ministrations to Stiles’ thin shoulder, the gentle press of warm lips or scratchy chin over his sensitized skin sending shivers of electric heat through him. 

Stiles realized belatedly that Derek was scenting him. He vaguely recalled his father doing the same to him before they would go on runs in the woods or to a crowded market for supplies. Peter sometimes liked to sniff him when they were in bed together, but Stiles preferred not to dwell long on the possible motives for any of the mad man’s behaviors. 

Lying under the stars with Derek’s soothing heat behind him, Stiles realized that he’d never felt such comfort in the arms of another man since his father had passed. With all the men since, the gesture had always been prompted by lust, either in hopes Stiles would spread his legs or in the short-lived afterglow of copulation. He had never enjoyed when Peter pulled him into his lap during mealtimes, and especially detested waking with Peter wrapped around him. 

Awakening the next morning to Derek’s human form tangled with his own, however, produced an unfamiliar swell of excitement in Stiles’ belly. 

Stiles took advantage of his companion’s continued slumber to properly look upon the other man. Derek was devastatingly handsome in the morning light, his jaw was strong, cheekbones high and well defined. His thick brows were more relaxed in sleep, erasing some of the severity from his face, and his lips looked plush and soft amidst the dark surrounding stubble. He was by far the most handsome man Stiles had ever seen, but while Derek’s human features were new to him, they bore a peculiar familiarity. 

Stiles was struck by the desire to wake him with a kiss, but quickly thought better of it. Instead he shook Derek’s shoulder, still unintentionally startling the other man to sudden fretful wakefulness. Derek’s eyes flashed blue at what he perceived to be impending danger, but faded back to their still otherworldly green when he was only greeted by the wild grin on Stiles’ face. 

“You’re still human!” Stiles exclaimed, holding up one of Derek’s arms to demonstrate his point. 

Derek’s eyes widened as he looked down and realized he was in fact still human. He even glanced under the blanket and inspected his nail beds before shuffling to his knees. His movements were still slow and clipped, but he stretched and rolled his muscles to become better reaquainted with them. Stiles’ mouth ran dry when Derek’s powerful chest swelled and strained when the muscles were pulled taut, definition carving into the man’s abdomen with each breath. Stiles watched silently, his tongue thick in his mouth and lips absently parted. He knew he was staring, but while Derek was otherwise preoccupied Stiles couldn’t bring himself to withdraw his gaze from the display before him. 

Derek swallowed hard and fixed Stiles with a penetrating stare, his face pinched after his lips parted but no sound came out. His own hand feebly curled about his throat, the tendons beneath working as he opened his mouth again only to emit a strangled rasp. 

Realization dawned on Stiles that Derek seemed to have once possessed the capability of speech, but his body had seemingly forgotten how to produce the desired words. He watched with bated breath when Derek tried again, a few unintelligible noises cracking through but nothing bearing resemblance to any language Stiles was familiar in. Derek furrowed his brow, head shaking in frustration when he couldn’t give voice to the words he longed to say to his companion. Derek frowned, palm striking angrily against his own throat in a primal expression of his mounting frustration.

Stiles waving his hands to stop the other man from harming himself in his vexation. He rose to his knees, mirroring Derek’s pose so that their legs almost touched. He pressed a hand to his own chest, slowly speaking his own name. “St-i-les” he said slowly, baring his teeth so Derek could see how he was forming the sounds. “Sssss” he repeated, reaching out to spread Derek’s lips in a similar manner and ensure his teeth were pressed together. 

“Sshhh-” Derek managed, brows knitting from irritation when he failed to replicate the sound. 

Stiles lit up all the same, brows rounded as he urged Derek to continue. “That’s it, you’re close,” he insisted. This time he kept his teeth parted enough for Derek to see the tip of his tongue pressed towards the roof of his mouth. 

When Derek failed to mimic Stiles yet again, he unconsciously began to shift. His nose curled in distaste and his teeth lengthened into frightful fangs, his beautiful green eyes adopting their eerie blue glow once more. He gnashed his teeth in distress when claws pushed from his nail beds, his face contorting further as the change progressed. Derek’s head shook in panic, his breath quickening the more the beast took over against his will. 

Without any consideration to the possible negative repercussions of engaging a distressed werewolf, Stiles lurched forward and clasped his hands on either side of Derek’s face. “It’s alright,” he said, forcing Derek’s gaze to meet his own. “Take a breath, you’re alright.” He nosed along Derek’s cheek as the man had done to him the night before, remembering how calming the gesture had been for him. Derek stilled in his grasp, limp like a puppet without strings. His breathing was still ragged but his eyes drifted shut and he allowed Stiles to continue his ministrations and nuzzle at his jaw and throat. 

Stiles gasped when a still clawed hand took him by the scruff of the neck and held him in place, remaining perfectly still as Derek leaned down with a low rumble to scent his throat. The claws pinching at his skin finally retracted, and when Derek’s teeth brushed over his jaw mid-nuzzle they were once more blunt and human. Stiles let his arms drift about Derek’s neck, the man inhaling deep against his throat once more before dragging the wet heat of his tongue along the same path. 

Stiles shivered, pulling away with a feeble shake of his head before he lost himself in the sensation. He wanted Derek, more fiercely than he’d desired another man before in all his life, but it was obvious that the other man had still not completely regained control of his faculties. He was still feral, still under the thumb of the wolf, and Stiles couldn’t help but feel he would be taking advantage by indulging such animalistic whims. 

“Are you afraid” he began, redirecting Derek’s attention. “Of becoming the wolf again? Are you afraid you won't be able to transform back again?” 

Derek stared at his lips instead of making any indication that he understood the question, much less agreed, but Stiles felt he was correct in his assumption. Derek had been unsettled by his own lack of control, but much like the rest of his body, Stiles knew the sense memory would return in time. 

An idea forming, Stiles quickly stood. Derek reached for him with fumbling hands, but Stiles stepped back, ignoring the urge to cover his still somewhat enthused cock. “I know it’s frightening now,” Stiles said, more to keep himself grounded than in expectation that Derek would listen. “But you need not dread your wolf. You’re entwined with one another, an asset to each other...all you need is to remember how to control it.”

Derek’s head cocked to the side with a small frown, perched on his haunches with his palms flat against the ground for leverage. He didn’t seem to fully understand, but Stiles nevertheless had his attention. 

With a deep breath, Stiles let himself shift. It was comfortable to be in his fox skin once again, like stretching out a limb after it had been tucked too long. Derek’s eyes flew wide, his body jerking away in shock. He whined low in his throat, tracking the empty space Stiles’ human body had occupied only a second ago down to the rusty fox before him, then back again. Stiles quickly shifted back to human form, arms outstretched as he gave a little spin to demonstrate his full transformation. 

Stiles couldn’t help but laugh at the look of complete shock still frozen over Derek’s stricken face. He fell forward back onto his knees and immediately offered Derek a short but affirming nuzzle. “It’s still me, Sour Wolf,” he all but giggled, shifting once more just long enough to rub against Derek’s arm with his silky fur, his tail swishing against the man’s knee. When he turned back he was practically in the werewolf’s lap, but was delighted to see the shock on Derek’s face had shifted to wonder. 

“I’m like you,” Stiles said, hands settling on Derek’s chest. “But a fox. I can shift at will, which I’d wager you could too before Peter put that collar on you.”

Derek’s eyes shot up at the mention of Peter; full and wounded in recognition. 

“That collar I took off of you...our first night in the woods...he used herbs to keep you bound to your wolf form. He did the same to me, but only briefly as punishment.” His days trapped in the cage, agonizingly long at the time, seemed pale in comparison to the lengths which Derek had likely been imprisoned. 

Derek whined, leaning forward to rub his scratchy cheek against Stiles’ smooth one. His arms remained limp before him, still unfamiliar in how they could aid in comforting his companion. 

Stiles chuckled, grateful for Derek’s attempts. “All in the past now,” he insisted. “From now on, our gift is ours to command. You’ll have full control again in time, I swear it.”

Derek nodded, gazing down at his own human hands as he curled and stretched his fingers. 

“But now that I know you won't devour me,” Stiles teased, teeth bared with a wide grin. “We can shift together, even go for a run perhaps?”

Derek watched him return the quilt to their cave, eyes trained as he came back and stood before him. Stiles reached down and grasped Derek’s large hands in his own, tugging the man to his feet. It took some effort, but finally Derek was standing on wobbly legs before him, clutching Stiles’ shoulders with a crushing grip. 

“Don’t be afraid of your wolf,” Stiles said evenly, eyes locked on Derek’s. “The collar is gone, he doesn’t control you anymore. You can change at will, you just have to remember.”

Derek’s breathing was somewhat labored, his downcast eyes betraying his lingering nerves, but Stiles could still sense that Derek trusted him. That the other man was stealing himself for attempting what Stiles requested, and it filled Stiles with a heady rush of pride. Taking the lead, Stiles slipped back into fox skin. He circled Derek’s bare legs, rubbing up against him on each pass like a cat before finally sitting back in expectation. 

Derek clenched and unclenched his fists, jaw tight and posture rigid, but his eyes were once again blue. He shifted fragmentally, the change likely more painful from being less fluid, but while Stiles wanted to cringe from the pop of bones and shifting joints he realized it was likely deliberate. Derek wanted to go slow, get a feel for the shift once more. It wasn’t long though before the familiar black wolf stood before him. The wolf seemed even more massive now as he towered above him, but Stiles stepped forward to brush his nose along Derek’s foreleg in greeting. He bounded playfully about the wolf, rubbing against him and yipping in invitation for Derek to join in. 

Derek was cautious at first, merely butting his head against Stiles’, but the the fox’s infectious energy soon had the wolf nipping at his tail and pawing the earth on either side of him. It was easy then to lead Derek in a chase, first prancing about the clearing and then further into the woods. It felt so good to move about in his nimble fox form, and Stiles couldn’t resist the urge to throw back his head and yip with delight, casting back barks to Derek to urge him to follow. Derek responded with a bark of his own, leaping to block Stiles’ path before dropping low in a playful stance. Stiles leapt up high, nipping at Derek’s ear and brushing his tail across the wolf’s face. Derk mouthed over the scruff of his neck without intent, teeth gentle in his thick fur. 

They ran through the woods together, both of them finally unleashing the full potential of their speed as they chased one another, taking turns in the lead position. They hunted down a plump rabbit together, herding it between them until they had it cornered. Derek the one to make the final kill, his white teeth flashing before he bit down on the creature with enough force to break its neck. They shared the kill, Stiles grateful for a meal of more substance than the meager roots and berries he’d collected in the previous days. The flesh tore deliciously between his sharp little teeth, blood warm on his tongue and in his belly. 

They explored the woods for the rest of the day, sharing in any small prey they found. They drank from a stream they discovered on the way back to their cave, both lapping happily at the cool water. When they returned to their small clearing, both Derek and Stiles stretched happily in the sun, their bellies full and their muscles pleasantly aching. Stiles was the first to turn back, his human face happily burrowing into the warm fur at Derek’s side. 

“Try to shift,” he suggested, no urgency to his tone. He was content to rest against the wolf’s fur until nightfall, but was curious to see if Derek would be able to manage without much difficulty. 

Derek whined, shifting nervously against the grass. 

Stiles huffed, sitting up to scratch Derek’s underbelly. “None of that now, it will get easier with practice. Just concentrate on the change, think of your human form and your body will take shape.”

Stiles kept scratching at Derek’s side, the fur beginning to recede and give way until there was nothing but warm skin beneath his fingertips. Stiles quickly withdrew his hand, fingers tingling from the memory of Derek’s soft human flesh. His cheeks heated, pinking when he forced himself not to let his eyes wander over the bounty of taut muscle and bare skin once more before him. 

Derek was too relieved to notice Stiles’ momentary inner turmoil, a satisfied quirk to his lips as he looked down at his own body. He let out a pleased grunt as he tapped his chest, thrilled at his own accomplishment and apparently awaiting confirmation of the sentiment from Stiles. 

More than happy to oblige, Stiles clasped his shoulders and rattled him with a congratulatory shake until Derek scowled at being jostled so. “I knew you could do it,” Stiles insisted, flopping down to once more rest his head on Derek’s stomach. He felt Derek seize momentarily beneath him, stomach pulling in with a sharp intake of breath through his nose, but he relaxed when Stiles took his hand and laced their fingers together. 

“We can do this,” Stiles said, finally believing the words himself. “You and I, we can survive out here together.”

Derek didn’t vocalize anything, but he brushed his thumb over Stiles’ in agreement. 

Stiles didn’t realize he’d dozed off until he became aware of a sound above him. A raspy “Shhh-Sssstah-Stiiiil-” breaking through the fog as he regained awareness. He blinked to clear the sleep from his eyes, finding the still somewhat blurry vision of Derek hunched over him. He was still lying on his back, though his head was now cradled in Derek’s lap, the man’s fingers delicately resting against either side of his jaw. 

Stiles cocked his head in Derek’s lap, gazing up at him with a raised brow while his vision cleared. He was just beginning to wonder if the sound had been a lingering part of a dream until Derek’s lips parted, and a gruff “Ssstiile-” tumbled out. 

Stiles immediately scrambled up to his knees, excitedly grasping Derek on either side of his face hard enough to scrunch the other man’s cheeks. “Say that again?” he begged, heart hammering in his chest. 

Derek licked his lips, scowl flashing a split second as he glanced down in displeasure at where Stiles was clutching him. “Sstiii-les” he said, this time with significantly more grump when he tried to extricate himself from the grasping hands but failed. 

Stiles ignored his scowl, practically bouncing with delight from Derek’s sudden progress. “Again!” he flailed, releasing Derek’s face to clutch at his shoulders instead. “Please Derek, say it again.”

Derek’s face was a scant inch from his own, eyes locked on Stiles’ own and his hands resting carefully on either side of his hips. “S-stiles,” he murmured, mouth forming the word with slightly more confidence. 

Stiles launched himself at Derek, wrapping his arms about his neck and toppling them both until he was sprawled astride the man, peppering his face with elated kisses. “You can talk...this is wonderful, Derek…you don’t understand..." Relief surged through him at his companion's revelation, strummed through his veins with an electric heat. Until that moment, Stiles had resigned himself to a lonely life in the woods, hiding from a world which only sought to use him for its own whims with only a wolf for company. He'd been grateful for his hitherto loyal companion, but then Derek's transformation had rekindled Stiles' desire for human interaction, for speech and touch. He'd been on his own for so long, that Stiles had long since relinquished the dream of finding another of his kind, and while the discovery of a fellow Were had been a revelation, Derek's muteness had seemed almost a cruel twist of fate. If though, Derek's voice merely had to be remembered and retrained as his human form had been, if this was only the beginning and Derek could unlock more of his less feral self, it opened an overwhelming new world of possibilities. 

"There are so many things I want to ask you," Stiles sighed in a long rush, nuzzling against Derek's scratchy cheek. "Do you have a home...a family...are there others like you, like us?" He wrapped his arms around Derek's neck and clung to him, his fingers winding in Derek's thick hair. "You'll be able to tell me soon, I just know you will...such a clever Sour Wolf..." Stiles stopped to take a much needed breath, his heart beating so fast it felt close to bursting. “I just can’t believe it.”

Taking advantage of Stiles' momentary stillness, Derek managed to flip them. Stiles’ arms were still locked around Derek’s shoulders, and he still fluctuated between gushing out words and pressing little kisses to Derek’s face, but now Derek was lying flush between his legs. He breathed out Stiles’ name over and over like an anthem or a prayer in his rough voice, hands braced against the ground for leverage to keep him from crushing Stiles under his full weight. Stiles was too elated at first to notice how Derek was scenting him, how desperate and low his voice had become. He only then became aware of Derek’s hot mouth against his throat, tongue snaking out to taste. 

“Derek,” he sighed, arching his head back on reflex to grant him access, his back bowing of its own volition when Derek’s teeth nipped the tender tendon at the side of his throat. The moan wrenched from his throat did nothing but stoke the fire between them, and was answered immediately by a sharp rock of Derek’s hips against his own. 

Heat pooled in his stomach, and Stiles could feel his cock plumping in eager approval of Derek’s ministrations, but he knew they were moving much too fast. Derek still wasn’t in complete control of himself; everything was still so new to him. Derek felt dangerously good above him though, so Stiles acknowledged that he had to slow things while he had any shred of willpower left within himself to do so. 

“Derek, wait.” He begrudgingly released the Derek’s firm shoulders and drew himself up to his elbows, carefully extricating himself from beneath the other man. He ignored both Derek’s growls and warning blue flash of his eyes, but had some difficulty with awarding the same to the thick cock which brushed against his hip, blood-hot with arousal. He shuddered at the contact, wanting nothing more than to take it in his palm and feel the silky heft of it. 

Even through the thick haze of his own desire, Stiles he refused to be like Peter. He wouldn’t take something which couldn’t be freely given, and until Derek learned to rein in his wolf properly, he was acting too much on primitive instinct. Stiles wanted them to grow close, to be comfortable with and have full trust of one another. So much as he wanted to get on his belly and present himself for the taking, Stiles gained some distance and calmed Derek down. 

It rained that night, so they retreated the the dry comfort of their cave. Instead of snuggling together beneath the quilt, Stiles piled it into a nest of sorts then shifted to his fox. Derek quickly took his lead. Once in wolf form, he circled the quilt twice before finally settling atop it. He curled in on himself, leaving a space just large enough Stiles’ fox to burrow into. When Stiles was comfortably tucked against him, Derek turned his head and lapped at Stiles right between the eyes, smoothing down his soft fur. Stiles leaned into it, allowing Derek to clean him in a gentle expression of his affections. Once satisfied, Derek turned with a breathy sigh to rest his head on his large paws. 

Stiles had thought nothing could feel better than laying with Derek beneath the stars, more freeing. Yet encompassed by the Derek’s dark fur and heat, even lost in the woods somewhere with the promise of winter growing more imminent every day, Stiles couldn’t help but feel protected. Safe. It was almost a concept too foreign to recognize, but it was blooming within him; and if Derek’s even slumbering breaths were any indication, it was taking root in him too.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been a long time! RL has been a rollercoaster and I've not had the time or energy to write. This was a BEAR to get out, but it feels good to be done. The rest of this fic is plotted out, so I'm going to keep trucking and get more out as soon as possible. Thanks to anyone still reading for your patience!

It was all wrong. He was a fox, curled in a downy burrow of quilt, warmed from sleep, a hand heavy and comforting as it caressed along his back. When Stiles still couldn’t shake the feeling of dread, he tried to shift to human form, but he found himself stuck fast, the change just beyond his reach. The hand settled heavy on the back of his neck, fingers tight about his scruff to hold him fast when Stiles tried to shy away. 

It was only then that he felt the chain, the thin metal snagging in his fur where it was pinched by his captor’s tight grip. He went rigid, little body stilling even when the hand resumed its languid strokes down the length of Stiles’ spine. 

“I warned you, Stiles,” purred an all too familiar voice from above, muffled and hazy despite being close enough to ruffle the whips of fur at Stiles’ ear. “I warned you this would happen...”

Stiles thrashed again, his desperate cries merely frantic yips from the fox, his heart threatening to burst from the panic coursing through him. He didn’t even notice his howls had turned to throaty screams, didn’t realize he was human until he clawed the burly arms holding him in place with blunt nails. He didn’t dare believe Peter had only been a dream until Derek brokenly mumbled his name into his ear, rubbed Stiles’ smooth cheek with his stubbled jaw to soothe him. Stiles turned as best he could in Derek’s arms, the werewolf’s tight grip making it difficult, but he needed to see, to be sure. 

He could only just make out Derek’s features in the pale moonlight, his heavy brows furrowed. Derek whined high in his throat, bumped against Stiles with his nose and nuzzled him in concern. Derek tended to regress in moments of distress, the familiar and comfortable animal animal within rising back to the surface. 

Stiles raised still trembling fingers to the nape of Derek’s neck, stroking gently to ease him, calming himself as well in the process. He tilted his head and let Derek scent his neck, sighed when Derek licked a hot stripe up the length. Stiles felt his own heart finally begin to slow, the frantic pace easing with every huff of warm breath against his skin. He nuzzled Derek back in turn, smiling despite himself when Derek immediately settled. 

When they had both calmed, Stiles urged the Were back against the cool earth, settling his head on Derek’s broad chest so his ear could rest atop the steady thrum of his heart. He eventually found himself breathing in time with the even rhythm, his own pulse slowed to its usual, if still slightly elevated, pace. It wasn’t until he twined Derek’s fingers in his own though that Stiles once again found sleep.

\- - - - -

While he still did not know how long Derek had been trapped in Wolf form, Stiles assumed it must have been some number of years as he had long since lost any sense of bashfulness. The man walked about in human skin as naked as a babe, cock swaying heavy between his thighs with care. Stiles held no objection to the bared bounty before him, but while the woods were remote they were not entirely uninhabited. Stiles worried what would befall them if Derek were discovered wandering in the buff, the few feeble explanations Stiles had thus imagined far unlikely to satisfy an inquiry. 

After only just acquiring a pair of trousers for himself, Stiles was understandably reluctant to part with them, but the shirt which swamped his lithe frame pulled tight over Derek’s broad chest and shoulders, doing nothing to cover his ample manhood. Stiles barely managed to stop the man from ripping the garment to pieces after Derek’s nose curled in distaste at the feel of the fabric constricting him. Stiles donned the shirt himself again, forcing down a smirk when he saw how the action drew yet another displeased snarl from Derek’s pinched face, like Derek didn’t wish to be barred the vision of Stiles’ body either. 

Groaning at the indignity of it all, Stiles finally took off the trousers. He had to crouch low and urge the man’s feet into the openings one at a time as he would a child. Derek pushed the trousers back down his hips four times before Stiles managed to finally tie them in place, laughing as he kissed the scowl from Derek’s pinched mouth. “It’s not as bad as all that,” he promised, nuzzling Derek’s jaw the way he knew the other man found soothing. 

Derek was showing progress, to be sure. Day by day he regained more of his humanity, losing some of his more feral trappings and looking more at home in his human form, but the wolf was far from forgotten. For all their closeness, their shared touches and nuzzles, Derek still didn’t quite know how to react when Stiles kissed him. They had thus far been few, each on a whim when Stiles found himself overcome in a manner words could not properly convey. They were chaste, sweet little things which left Derek stock still, expressive eyes fixed wide on Stiles’ mouth. Stiles finally took pity on Derek and showed him, cupped the man’s stubbled jaw in his hands and gently urged him forward until Derek’s lax mouth pressed against the corner of his own. 

“Kiss,” Stiles reminded him, his own eyes sliding shut at the feel of Derek’s warm breath. “Do you remember them? I’d like to think you’d had at least one before.” He hated the thought that Derek hadn’t known love, that he’d never been shown real affection before Peter found him. 

“Kiss…” Derek’s voice was still raspy with disuse, still unable to recite few words beyond Stiles’ name. “Stiles, kiss.”

Stiles nodded, nudging his forehead against Derek’s. “Good,” he assured with a little nod. “That’s good, Derek.”

\-------

Stiles could feel the beginning of the moon’s pull days days before its peak, but had long since overcome its call. When he was a child, his father had taught him how to center himself, retain control of his change during the full moon. 

It proved decidedly more difficult for Derek. 

Stiles could see the agitation fluttering beneath Derek’s skin, that ghostly blue flickering within his eyes with mounting intensity each night as the moon swelled to fullness. He was restless, running through the woods until his chest heaved, frantic for some form of release. 

Stiles calmed him as best he could, stroked his hair and spoke to him of life with his mother and father, let Derek grip his hand until he feared his bones might snap. Words remained a barrier for Derek, became a source of increasing frustration when he could not make himself understood. He growled at his own inabilities, fists slamming against his own head as though to try and dislodge whatever trapped them inside. 

Without thinking, Stiles’ own hands darted out to still Derek’s. He took him by the wrists and held Derek’s clawed hands against his own chest, shuffling forward on his knees until they were face to face. Derek fixed him with a blue gaze, sharp teeth glinting where they were bared by his curled lip. 

“It’s just the moon,” Stiles assured him again, rubbing along the length of Derek’s forearm. “It calls to your wolf, just as it beckons my fox, but I’ve learned to control it. Your family...did they never help you-”

The words caught in his throat at the scowl Derek tossed him, anger and pain a whirl in his illuminated eyes. His face twisted further, the wolf edging all the closer to the surface. 

“My father,” Stiles offered, changing pace. “He taught me when I was very young how to resist the change. It was dangerous for us you see, we lived in a village and had to keep our identities a secret. He would hold me in his lap and tell me to close my eyes and think of something that calmed me, like from a nightmare. My mother died when I was young, but her memory grounded me...her smell and the way she’d stroke my hair-” Stiles carded his fingers through Derek’s hair, scratching along his scalp and down the length of his nape. 

Derek’s eyes drifted shut, his head leaning forward until it rested against Stiles’ own. His arms wound about Stiles to draw him closer, clawed hands curled into fists so as not to pull against his skin. Stiles crawled forward, easing himself carefully astride Derek’s lap so he could enfold the man in his arms. “Isn’t there someone, anything in your life that gave you peace?” he murmured into Derek’s hairline, his heart aching for the other man. “I hope to hear of it someday.”

“Stiles…”

He lifted his head to see Derek’s handsome face, the man’s eyes still alight but his teeth and forehead no longer shifted. “Kiss, Stiles.” The words were soft but clear, unwavering, so with a smirk Stiles leaned forward to press a tender kiss to the corner of Derek’s mouth. 

“That what you wanted then, you great beast?” he teased, though he worried his lip all the same, ashamed of wanting more. 

Derek glowered at him, brows furrowed. “Kiss,” he repeated, as though Stiles’ previous attempt had personally affronted him. His face was human though, his control regained for the time being. Stiles flushed under the heat of Derek’s gaze and raised his hand to trail his fingers down Derek’s face, over his eyes to gently shut the lids. He then leaned forward, lips pressing carefully to Derek’s. He felt the other man still beneath him, felt Derek’s brows crinkle together, but he also felt Derek push back, tilt his chin to allow Stiles more access. 

This time when Stiles pulled back, Derek’s eyes were green again, his face open and relaxed in a manner Stiles was not used to. So trusting. 

“Stiles, kiss,” Derek insisted again, voice eager as he licked his lips and inclined his head back up.

Stiles glanced down and took Derek’s hands in his own, the other man following his movements with a confused squint until Stiles urged his arms to encircle his waist. Derek took his cue and squeezed, pulling Stiles tighter into his lap. Derek’s hands were warm through the shirt, his palms only a little unsteady as they spread along Stiles’ spine, the dexterity of his long fingers still somewhat unfamiliar. Stiles drew his blunt nails along Derek’s scalp, soft black strands slipping through his fingers until they once again reached the man’s nape. 

This time when their mouths met, Derek pressed insistently against him at once, pulled Stiles closer until their bodies were pressed flush. Stiles twined his arms about Derek’s neck, parted his lips when he had a moment to breathe and let the point of his tongue flick over the curve of Derek’s lips. Derek responded with a low rumble in his throat, a blend of growl and groan, and after a few teasing brushes of Stiles’ tongue, he met it with his own. Stiles moaned in delight, his hips rocking against Derek’s hard stomach as he adjusted himself. The shirt he wore was bunched at the waist, trapping his cock, and Stiles quickly leaned back to pull it over his head to avoid dirtying his only article of clothing. 

Derek’s broad hands came to rest against Stiles’ ribs, sliding against his smooth skin exploratively. Stiles gasped when Derek’s thumb brushed over a nipple, and Derek repeated the motion until Stiles moaned pitifully, the little bud growing tender from the rough handling. Derek growled in displeasure when Stiles pushed his hand away, so Stiles directed the man instead to the swell of his ass, his own fingers urging Derek’s to squeeze. 

“Don’t be so grim, Sour Wolf,” he teased, smirking when Derek firmly palmed his ass of his own volition. The Wolf proved a quick study when properly motivated, and Stiles soon found himself lost in the delight of firm hands on him which were at last mutually desired. 

Stiles gasped when Derek bore him down to the cool earth, spreading his legs at once to allow Derek between them. His bare thigh stroked along Derek’s clothed hip, his head leaning up to meet Derek’s panting mouth in another heated kiss. Derek curled over him, Stiles’ hips rucked up atop his thighs, his cock insistant against the boy’s ass. Stiles wriggled and squirmed until he’d managed to work his hands between them, greedy fingers clawing at the cord which fastened Derek’s trousers. He bit sharp his lower lip in his excitement when the cord finally pulled free, gracelessly kicking the wretched trousers down Derek’s ass and hips with the soles of his feet. 

He shivered at the heavy sway of Derek’s swollen cock against his belly, flushing when it brushed against his own. He’d seen Derek’s prick before, even seen it hard once or twice in early mornings, but it was another thing to feel it against him with such intent. Stiles practically trembled with want, imagining that thick length inside him, spreading him open and laying him bare. 

Stiles sucked in a deep shuddering breath when fingers skimmed over the length of his belly, moaned when Derek leaned down to nuzzle at his throat before dipping lower to lave his tongue across one of Sties’ nipples. He hiked his thighs up higher, spread them until they quivered with the strain to better accommodate Derek’s bulky form. The shift was just enough that Derek’s stiff prick slotted between the cheeks of Stiles’ ass, both momentarily stilling when the head of Derek’s cock brushed over Stiles’ exposed hole. 

Stiles knew it wouldn’t be enough, but spit into his palm all the same. He wanted Derek to claim him bodily, and reached down between them once more, fingers grasping as they sought out Derek’s hardness. He groaned aloud when he finally acquired his prize, grateful to find Derek’s cock freely weeping his pre-release. It was still not ideal, but Stiles had endured far worse in the past, and without such ample motivation. 

Derek panting above him, harsh grunts bursting forth as Stiles awkwardly spread the slick seed down the length of his prick. Derek’s hips were rutting now, the short little jabs which seemed more driven by instinct than deliberate effort. Stiles could see the wolf warring for dominance behind Derek’s green eyes, frenzied by the supplication of a willing mate, but Derek managed to contain it. 

When Stiles finally managed to seat the head of Derek’s stiff cock within himself, Derek’s eyes flashed wild blue. Stiles gasped when strong hands took him by the hips and flipped him onto his front only to be immediately dragged back onto his knees and entered once more. The air was pushed out of him, gasp seized in his throat as he tried to adjust to the hot length inside him. “Derek-” he choked out with a wheeze, fingers scrambling for purchase in the earth as Derek rolled his hips forward to press further inside, forcing Stiles to open for his cock. 

Despite the burn, Stiles wanted it, moaned high in his throat when Derek withdrew only to push forward once more. He bore down around the cock inside him, urged the Were deeper with helpless little rocks of his hips. 

Derek’s chest draped over his back, one arm locked across Stiles’ chest to hold him in place while he mounted him. His sharp pants burst hot against Stiles’ ear, his teeth thankfully blunt when he slid them along Stiles’ throat before latching to the back of his neck. Derek was fucking him with intent then, hips snapping against Stiles’ own, hard enough that Stiles’ eyes burned at the intensity of the stretch. Derek’s artless movements offered some pleasure, but Stiles could feel the prick of lengthened teeth and claws, heard the low growls and nearly inhuman grunts and feared Derek was losing his grasp on his wolf. 

Quick as he could, Stiles wriggled around in Derek’s hold, wrapping his legs around the man’s waist before he could do anything in protest. When Derek sat back on his haunches, Stiles followed seating himself in the Were’s lap and curling an arm about his neck for leverage before reaching back and fitting Derek’s cock back inside him. They both groaned aloud as Stiles sank down, Derek’s ghostly eyes locked on him as Stiles swiveled his hips and rocked back down. 

Stiles leaned forward, mindful of the sharp teeth as he kissed the corner of Derek’s mouth, murmured softly to calm him as he rode the man with even rolls of his hips. Stiles’ eyes rolled back at the way Derek’s cock slid inside him, the pace and movements much more pleasurable now that he was in control. Though Derek gripped his hips with a nearly too firm grip, his fingers were no longer tipped with piercing claws. When he finally moaned Stiles’ name into his ear, the boy knew he’d finally come back to himself. He kissed along Derek’s throat, mouthing at the stubbled skin. “So good,” he moaned against Derek’s ear, breath hitching when the man thrust at a delicious angle which sent shivers through him. “You feel so good, Derek.”

Once more, Derek proved a fast learner, so when the man bore him down to the ground for a second time, Stiles allowed it. He relished the feel of Derek’s bulk about him, the whine to his voice when he panted Stiles’ name. It didn’t take long for Stiles to feel his own release mounting, a few quick strokes of his own cock all he needed before he came. He arched with it, back bowing as he clenched around Derek. The man managed a handful of frantic thrusts before filling Stiles with the heat of his climax. They collapsed to the dirt together in a sweaty jumble of limbs, breathing ragged for several long moments as they collected themselves. Stiles tucked himself against Derek’s side, wrapping the Were’s arm about his waist until Derek understood and held him close. 

Stiles curled up happily, nuzzling into Derek’s neck as he basked in the remainder of his afterglow. He was happier than he could ever remember being, felt freer than he’d dared to have dreamt mere months ago. He was content to just drift off to sleep when Derek turned to rub his nose on Stiles’ hair. “Stiles,” he murmured, running his nose down Stiles’ temple. “Stay, Stiles.”

Stiles smiled lazily, threading their fingers together. “I’m not leaving, Sourwolf.”

*****

No sooner than he seemed to have drifted off, Stiles found himself being roughly shaken awake. He was about to chide Derek for his rough handlings when his vision finally cleared enough to take in the frantic look in Derek’s wide hazel eyes. Stiles was up like a shot, ears perked as he listened to the woods around them. A fox’s hearing wouldn’t be as refined as a wolf’s, but it was still better than the average human’s. He could pick up the distant snap of twigs, the rustling of branches still dry with the winter chill. 

Both of their heads whipped about when a piercing howl split through the lonely wood. Derek immediately raised to his haunches, fingers braced against the ground as he scented the air, nostrils flaring and eyes shining blue. Stiles scrambled to grab at him, grasped him by the shoulders to stop him before Derek could rise and run off. 

“Don’t!” He hissed, only as loud as he dared. His heart skipped when he realized Derek’s teeth had lengthened, the wolf bursting through at the call of its own kind. Though he was a fox, Stiles’ skin prickled at the fear in the howl, knew it as a cry for aid. “We can’t help...we can’t.”

Derek’s posture was still rigid, and Stiles knew he had mere seconds until instinct would fully take over. He all but threw himself at Derek, pulled the man’s face to his bared throat, tilting his head in a submissive gesture in hopes of appealing to Derek’s wayward wolf. To his great relief, Derek took the bait, the sharp scent of anxiety on his mate redirecting his attentions. He scented Stiles tenderly, rubbing his stubbled cheek along the length of Stiles’ neck.

Stiles distracted him as long as he dared, heart racing as he heard the ever increasing approach of the wolf and its pursuers. He felt Derek flinch as another whine cut through the trees, but Stiles held him fast. Mouth set in grim determination, Stiles took Derek’s face in his hands and forced their eyes to meet. 

“We need to hide,” he whispered, relief making him dizzy when Derek nodded, eyes their proper hazel. “You have to stay in control, Derek” he insisted. “No matter what...understand?”

Derek nodded, face twisted in helpless resignation. Stiles took him by the hand at once, snatching up their scattered clothes as he pulled Derek towards a rocky hill, upwind from the clearing where they’d been lying. They scrambled for a jutting formation of boulders which had been exposed by the hillside’s erosion, crouching behind it just as the first figure came into view. Stiles pushed Derek down, immediately settling himself in the werewolf’s lap, both to keep Derek in place ground him enough to keep his change at bay. 

When he dared to peek out, Stiles saw the werewolf dart into the clearing, face snarled with the change and eyes blazing an all too familiar blue. He had a broken off arrow protruding from his chest, shirt below glistening with fresh blood, and another arrow through the meat of his thigh. He limped with his injuries but still managed a swifter pace than any mere man would find possible, bloodied hand clothed over another wound at his side. 

Derek flinched against him when an arrow pierced a tree close by the fleeing wolf, arms tightening about Stiles at the crack of a gunshot. Stiles clutched Derek close, urged his head down against his neck and whispered at him not to look, knew the strain it was for Derek to fight down his natural instincts and ignore the call of his own kind. They both grimaced when the next shot landed, the creature wailing pitifully as he collapsed to the ground. 

Derek’s head shot up at the whine, eyes flashing momentarily until Stiles covered his mouth with his palm, head shaking with his silent implore for Derek to remain still. 

“String it up!” 

Stiles peeked out again to see four men step into the clearing, well armed and in clothes of fine leather. They went on foot, and from their appearance Stiles could tell they were likely based in the area. He counted it sheer dumb luck that they had not crossed paths before, the realization of how close danger had been all alone sinking like a stone as they stalked forward and took up the wounded Were. 

They were practiced in their movements, deliberate as they hauled him to his feet and bound him with a thin rope Stiles guessed was laced with wolfsbane considering its effectiveness. Quick as a wink they had the werewolf roped up by the wrists, dangling from a sturdy tree branch. One man with cropped silver hair and pale eyes stepped forward, waited while the werewolf twisted in his bonds and spat curses at him. He even chuckled when the werewolf called them “hunter filth.”

Stiles swallowed hard, tried to keep his breathing under control when he remembered where he’d heard the title before, recalled the warnings his father cast him whenever he’d been too free and easy with his change. Truth be told, he’d always figured the hunters were a bedtime tale to keep lively little boys in line, and seeing these men now felt akin to a more vivid childhood nightmare. 

He held a finger to his lips when Derek looked up at him, brows arched in concern. Derek’s jaw clenched, but he thankfully remained still. Though he kept his eyes averted, he listened just attentively as Stiles, listened as the silver haired man called the wolf “omega,” and accused him of taking human life. The wolf gnashed his sharp teeth, shouted he had been driven to such acts, that if they had let him pass unaccosted no blood had need been shed. 

Stiles was so consumed with containing any reaction from Derek, that when a shot blared once more he nearly gave them away himself. Thankfully Derek’s hand flew to his mouth and captured his cry, the cracking echoes of it covering any noise detectable by human ears. He took a long even breath to collect himself, nodding his gratitude to Derek before chancing another glance toward the band of hunters. 

The werewolf hung limp from his bonds, a charred hole marring the center of his chest where he’d been shot. The men stood about almost idly, chatting amongst one another as silver haired man secured his weapon back in its holster only to draw out a long sword he’d had strapped to his back. The others didn’t so much as flinch when the man gave the sword a mighty swing and cleaved the hanging body in two. 

This time Stiles buried his face in Derek’s neck, shuddering as the image replayed itself over again in his mind. Derek clutched him tight, soothed him with tender kisses and a hand at his nape. They had little choice but to remain hidden while the group dug a shallow grave, neither having the stomach to watch further. They kept curled together, though their limbs numbed from being bent at awkward angles for such a prolonged time, but they didn’t dare adjust themselves and risk drawing attention. Stiles briefly considered shifting to allow a swifter escape, but these men were obviously skilled hunters, and loathe as he was to admit it Stiles was afraid to chance it.

They waited until long after the hunters left, until the sun was nearly set and the forest about them was still. Stiles merely rolled off of Derek, groaning at how the movement sent shocks down his cramped muscles. Derek followed suit, both of them stretched naked on the cool earth. 

“We can’t stay here,” Stiles finally said, sorrowful. “If they came once, they’ll come again...next time they may find us. These men know about our kind, we can’t risk it.”

Derek nodded in solemn understanding, casting an unconscious glance at the upturned earth which served as grim reminder of the consequences of discovery. 

They resolved to find a place to hide for the night, a proper shelter. Stiles donned his shirt and then helped Derek with his trousers, the Were still shaken enough that he allowed it without fuss. 

“We’ll be alright,” Stiles assured him, hugging Derek close. “We’ll stick together.”

Derek nodded, dipping his head to press a chaste kiss to the corner of Stiles’ mouth. “T-together.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long delay! Thanks to everyone still reading for their patience. RL has been intense, and I rewrote this about a billion times (ok, ok, 5 times, but it FELT like a billion). The next chapter is half done, I've got an exam Thursday but I'm hoping to update this fic again this weekend. <3

They ran all that night, kept to the thickest part of the wood to keep cover. Even without his father’s childhood warnings, Stiles knew from how they had followed the lone Omega that the hunters were skilled trackers, and was determined to leave as little a trace as possible. He also kept them to their human form, not wanting to chance that they might be spotted. Such men would undoubtedly see through a fox and a wolf traveling together. 

Derek kept close to him, nose occasionally raised to scent the air. They wandered aimlessly through the morning, the only intended destination one of further distance than they’d been the hour previous. Stiles tried to steele his emotions, knew Derek could smell them with his heightened senses, knew the Were was affected by them. He finally took Derek’s hand in his own and rubbed the Were’s palm across his throat, smiling at the way it soothed both Derek and himself. It felt good to carry the other man’s scent, liked the way his own smelled on Derek as well. It smelled like safety, like pack, like belonging. 

Around midday they came upon a road. Derek froze, eyes darting down the expanse of dirt in either direction, nostrils flaring with each inhale. Though his senses were not as honed as Derek, he could still pick up the barrage of scents on the road, mingled from men passing day after day, horses and cows, hay and blood from a likely hunt. Merchants and farmers and wayward travelers, it would make it difficult to pick up a new scent right away, but the lure of a proper shelter was compelling. 

Stiles sighed, scratching his head as he glanced back down the road again before turning his attention to Derek. “What do you think?” He asked, nudging Derek with his elbow. 

Derek huffed, seeming as conflicted as Stiles. His brows were drawn down in a heavy furrow, jaw tight as he considered. He finally shook his head, held his hand out for Stiles to take as had become his habit. “Go, Stiles” he mumbled, tugging the fox back into the woods the instant he felt Stiles’ palm against his own. 

As the sun made its descent behind thick clouds, the skies opened, the rain ice cold as it soaked them. Though it little affected Derek, a fox like Stiles was not as immune to the chill, and he wrapped his arms about himself against it, cupped a hand over his exposed genitals when the brush of his damp shirt became unpleasant. They needed shelter for the night, not only from the rain but from the barrage of smells and sounds it carried with it. Such weather taxed their sharper senses, and with hunters in their midst, Stiles was unwilling to leave them an open target. 

Finally blessed with a spot of good fortune, they came upon a crossroads opposite an inn. Stiles grit his teeth at the name and emblem adorning the swaying wooden sign, eyes darting to Derek as he sent a silent prayer that the man either could not read or had not noticed that the name of their chosen sanctuary was the “Wolf’s Head” inn and tavern. Stiles swallowed down his unease, assuring himself it would only be for the night and well determined to be gone before the sun rose again. 

There were two horses hitched before the inn, and though the windows glowed with light, there were no other outward signs of activity. A great stables stood behind the inn, and beside that still was a somewhat bedraggled barn. Stiles hoped it’s shabby state was a sign of sparse use, and urged Derek along towards it at a swift pace. It was not locked, rather kept shut with a sturdy plank of wood with proved little difficult for Derek to lift and allow them entrance. 

The winds rattled the old board, but the barn was dry inside, just warm enough to take some of the sting from the air. Derek managed to reach through the slats of the door and replace the plank, shutting the door and leaving no evidence of their entrance. Stiles squinted into the darkness, making out some bound rolls of thatch, piles of hay, stacks of chopped wood. 

He managed to find an rough but sturdy blanket rolled on the back of an old saddle, and was in the midst of giving it a hearty shake to clear the dust when he caught sight of Derek. The Were’s shoulders were tense, his brows drawn down to a deep furrow as he stood by the barn door. His fingers flexed at his side, curled at the ready to bear claws. 

Stiles spread the blanket out atop the hay before laying back upon it and pounding out any hard lumps beneath. When he’d finished, he chanced a look back to Derek only to find him in much the same position. Stiles gently called his name, knowing Derek’s keen hearing would have no difficulty even over the creaking wood and driving rain, but it wasn’t until he’d repeated it twice over that Derek finally glanced his way. Stiles patted the blanket beside him, urging Derek close with his other hand. 

Clearly reluctant, Derek did as he was bade and crossed to Stiles, dropping into the hay at his side. Stiles smiled to himself when the Were tried to subtly scent him, as though Stiles wouldn’t catch on to what he was doing after weeks of the behavior. Knowing it calmed Derek, Stiles tugged him closer and presented his throat. Derek practically purred as he burrowed his nose against Stiles’ skin, happily breathing in his scent and depositing his own. He relaxed by degrees, body slowly sagging until he rested heavy atop Stiles, nose snuffling idly against his throat. Stiles rubbed a hand up and down the length of his spine, his head turned so that his breaths ruffled the dark strands of Derek’s soft hair. 

The storm continued to rage outside, the howling winds making the loose boards of the old barn creak from the effort of holding them at bay. The rain pelted against the roof, the occasional drop leaking through to plop on the hay beside them, once on Stiles’ nose. Stiles found himself humming a tune his mother had sung when he was a young boy, a song he had not thought of in years, not allowed himself to remember. The sudden realization made him falter until Derek nudged his jaw fondly, urging him to continue. 

Stiles licked his lips and tried to remember the words, but quickly forsake it and continued to hum the melody. When he’d finished, the storm had ebbed some, the rains still heavy but almost soothing in their steady rhythm. As his eyelids grew heavy, he could feel the steady rise and fall of Derek’s back, knowing how exhausted the poor wolf truly much have been to let down his guard so quickly. He falls asleep himself with a wry little smile tugging unconsciously at his lips. 

His serenity ended with a sharp kick to his thigh, eyes flying wide to find a figure standing above them and a crossbow bolt a scant breath away from his face. 

“Get up.” 

The figure beside them was that of a girl of Stiles’ age, clean and well groomed, her clothes and crossbow well made. She was no laborer, that was certain, and no farmer’s daughter would have been gifted such a finely crafted weapon. The dark waves of her hair framed her pretty face, though her features at present were pinched as she held the crossbow steady. “My father returns soon, and he does not take kindly to beggars and thieves, get dressed and be on your way.”

Stiles swallowed, arms tightening to hold Derek fast to his chest when he felt the Were stiffen against him, muscled coiling in preparation for attack. He licked his dry lips, gaze flickering from the shiny tip of the bolt to the girl’s face. She held fast, but her eyes betrayed her uncertainty, and her heartbeat thrummed quick as a bird. 

Hoping to curry her favor, he reached a careful hand out, his brows rounded to convey his sincerity as he spoke. “Please don’t shoot...we merely sought refuge from the storm.” He stroked Derek’s hair when the man’s breath began to beat in anxious pants against his collarbone, hoping to soothe back the beast from baring itself before this girl. “We meant no trespass...I beg you for a moment to calm my brother and we’ll be on our way.”

The girl’s eyes roamed between them, frowning as she took in Derek’s anxious form and how Stiles’ clutched him close, effectively hiding his face. “What ails him?” she asked, tilting her crossbow in Derek’s direction, her voice faltering with the slight slip of her resolve.

“He is mute, and unused to anyone other than me” Stiles quickly explained, knowing a tale as close to the truth as possible would both lend aid to his sincerity and play to her sympathies. His own heartbeat had calmed just enough that Derek was beginning to follow suit, breaths finally evening. “We just need a moment.”

She shifted her stance, the bow lowering until the bolt no longer trained on them. She was subtle, but Stiles still noticed her scanning the barn around them, her lips pouting in confusion. “Where are your clothes?”

“We have nothing else,” he admitted. “In our haste we left everything behind.”

She tilted her head, cheeks pinking as her eyes quickly flashed down to behold Stiles’ bare legs and hip. “Even your britches?” 

Stiles nodded as he stood. He righted his shirt to better cover himself before reaching down to urge Derek to his feet as well. Stiles didn’t miss the small step back the girl took when his handsome companion rose to his full height. “Necessity compelled it,” he tossed over his shoulder as he urged Derek towards the barn door, hoping she would let them leave without raising an alarm. 

His heart seized when she called for them to stop, her voice small and unsteady. Stiles could feel the muscles in Derek’s shoulder tense under his hand, and he squeezed gently to calm him. They both turned to face the girl, her crossbow now lowered to her side, her eyes wide and conflicted. 

“Wait,” she repeated, the initial tremble eased from her voice. “Don’t go just...will you wait here a moment? My father has some old things which won’t be missed. It feels wrong to send you away unclothed as you are, it would only take a moment and then you can be on your way.”

She looked earnest, pretty eyes wide and soft now that she’d decided to help them. Stiles wanted to trust her, but it had been so long since he’d allowed himself such a luxury. The promise of clothing they would not have to steal proved too tempting though, so despite the anxious whines from Derek, Stiles nodded in agreement. With his keen hearing and Derek’s enhanced senses, they likely would be able to detect any deception and flee if need be. “You’re very kind,” Stiles offered, urging Derek to step aside to give her leave. 

She slipped by, a little skittish as she passed them. At the door she paused again, turning back towards them, her lip caught between her teeth. “I won’t be long just...wait here.” With that she was gone, the barn door drawn shut behind her. 

Soon as she was gone, Derek took hold of Stiles’ arm. “Stiles,” he whined, eyes darting to the closed door, keen to leave. Stiles knew he was probably right, that waiting could end badly for them both. From the name of the Inn to the intricately crafted crossbow the girl carried, it was too likely that the inn was owned by a family of hunters. Every second they lingered increased their chance of discovery, the chance of them being butchered like that wretched Omega in the woods. But the hunters patrolled the area, and in their state of undress they made a suspicious pair. With proper clothing it would be much easier to pass unnoticed, so Stiles ignored Derek’s pleading stare and shook his head. 

“Give her a moment,” Stiles insisted, gripping Derek’s hand tight. “If we hear anyone else, we’ll run.”

True to her word, the girl returned swiftly, her crossbow replaced by a large cloth bundle. When the door was shut, she unravelled it to reveal sets of clothes; several shirts and pairs of breeches, worn but serviceable boots, a weathered jacket. Stiles’ eyes went wide as he surveyed her offerings, mouth agape as she held up a shirt before Derek to gage his measurements. 

“This should fit,” she mumbled to herself, holding it out to Derek who merely eyed it with distrust. Stiles finally took it from her, the material nearly slipping through his lax fingers. 

“We have no money to pay you,” he insisted as she stooped to inspect a pair of boots. 

Her face pinched, as though she wanted to explain but thought better of it. “They won’t be missed,” she assured him, voice steady and somber. Stiles’ stomach sank at the words, the Omega’s image rushing unbidden before his eyes, but he pushed such thoughts away before they could sour the moment too much. The dead had no need for clothing, and if the items were not her father’s, their absence would indeed likely go unnoticed. 

Stiles helped Derek into a shirt, grateful when his companion finally allowed himself to be dressed. Derek frowned in distaste at the unfamiliar grip of the worn boots around his dirty feet but stood still while Stiles pulled them on. Fully Dressed, Derek looked every bit a rakishly handsome traveler. His breeches clung to his muscular thighs, accentuating their curve and the heavy bulge of his thick cock. His burly chest peeked from the slouchy unlaced opening of his shirt, the jacket accentuating his trim waist. If they were alone, Stiles didn’t think he’d be able to resist ripping the clothes off again, but under the watchful eye of the innkeeper's daughter, he restrained himself and put on his own clothes. 

 

The girl hid her smile behind her hand when Derek shifted unhappily from foot to foot, unable to stifle a giggle when the man went on to pluck at the fabric covering his cock with a displeased huff. Her eyes widened in horror at her own unbidden reaction, her eyes wide and hand clasped over her mouth. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, brows rounding in genuine contrition. “I shouldn’t laugh in light of what you’ve both suffered...it’s only that I’ve never seen someone so miserable to be clothed.” The more she babbled, the deeper the flush staining her cheeks grew. 

“It’s alright,” Stiles offered, taking Derek’s hand in his own to pull it from between his legs and cease the other man’s fumblings. “I know we must seem a queer pair...but it has been many years since my brother was allowed clothing; he has long since lost comfort in them.”

Her brows rounded further, mouth twisting beneath her lax fingers. “I-” she paused, worried her lip between her teeth as she stepped forward towards Derek, her long fingers clutching anxiously at the pendant about her neck. “Please forgive me...I did not mean to mock you.” She stood quietly while Stiles finished dressing himself, teeth fretfully worrying at the edge of her thumb, fingers of her other hand anxiously drumming against her side. By the time Stiles had pulled on his last boot, she could no longer contain herself and invited them both to inside the inn for a hot meal before they departed. 

“My father has not yet returned from scouting,” she explained. “It’s only simple bread and stew, but you could eat and warm yourselves a moment...perhaps my father could even find some work for you in exchange for tonight’s lodgings...he’s bartered before.”

Stiles’ eyes went wide at her rapid speech, finding Derek in a similar state when he chanced a glance in the man’s direction. Stiles found himself torn; the appeal of a home cooked meal and a warm bed appealed in every way, but this was hardly a sanctuary. He worried that the returning hunters would quickly sniff out the wolf in their hen house, but he also worried that their rejection of such a generous and tempting offer would seem suspicious to those same hunters when they returned. As he was still searching for a response, the girl reached out to take Derek by the elbow and lead him to the barn door. Derek’s head whipped back towards Stiles for guidance, but in the moment Stiles felt just as lost, and followed helplessly. 

She told them her name was Allison during the brief walk to the kitchen entrance at the rear of the inn. She continued with a guileless impulsivity, declaring that her family name was Argent, and that the inn had been in their family for three generations. Stiles’ heart skipped a beat when his eyes landed on a gleaming axe stuck fast in a thick stump back by the heavy kitchen door, dark stains atop due to more than mere elemental weathering. 

The inn loomed before them like a bad omen, raising Stiles’ hackles. He tampered the thought down best he could and stave the rapid flutter of his heart rate when Derek glanced back towards him, pale eyes betraying his own nerves at Stiles’ subtle signs of distress. Now dressed and presentable, there was no great reason he and Derek could not take advantage of the offered meal without rousing too many suspicions, leave once they’d finished better equipped to continue onwards. Stiles only need keep Derek calm and in control of his wolf, and they could pass easily for road weary travelers. 

They were led into a warm kitchen, the air thick with the smoke from the crackling fire. A pot bubbled upon the hob, the scent of onion and rosemary heavy in his nostrils in a way that twisted his belly with hunger. Derek’s nostrils flared as she ushered them through the kitchen into a large room illuminated by small iron bound windows and a massive hearth. Coats of arms lined the wall, adorned with images of wolves’ heads on pikes and great red-eyed beasts. A few men sat at long wooden tables, hunched forward over bowls and paying them no mind. Another man sat in a deerskin chair before the hearth, a heavy blanket across his lap. 

Allison led them to one of the unoccupied tables, urging them to seat themselves, even directing Derek how to sit on the bench with a gentle hand to his elbow when he faltered. Stiles had long since forgotten the kindness of strangers, and in such a place of this was wary to accept it as genuine, but there was no guile in the girl’s eyes. She bade them wait before returning to the kitchen, leaving them in the great hall. 

Stiles quickly leaned into Derek, clasping his hand below the table and away from prying eyes. When he asked if Derek was alright, his companion offered a shaky nod. Derek was on edge, much as Stiles was, but he seemed to want this as much as Stiles did. A chance for normalcy, a hot meal at a table and shelter from the damp and cold. “We can leave after,” Stiles whispered, thumb brushing along the backs of Derek’s knuckles as he spoke. “Take care not to let her see your eyes...promise me?”

Derek nodded again, steady with understanding as he squeezed Stiles’ hand in response. He leaned forward to nose at Stiles’ temple briefly, a scant touch which would go unnoticed by others but set them both to ease. 

Allison soon returned with two bowls of stew and great hunks of bread, steam coiling above the heaping bowls. It was simple fare, but rich with sage and onion, blooming warmth in Stiles’ belly as he ate. Derek first reached into the bowl with curious fingers, tearing a piece of lamb with his teeth, but Allison’s questioning gape and a nudge from Stiles quickly halted him. 

Stiles dabbed at Derek’s mouth with a finger, clearing away the smeared gravy as he offered Allison a meek shrug. “My brother was not given even the most basic of utensils, and our travels since our escape have not allowed him much opportunity to improve the skill. He could have danced for the way her brows arched in sympathy, her hand extending as though to press against Derek’s shoulder before she thought the better of it. She surprised them both by taking a seat across from Derek, leaning forward to take hold of his hand and press a spoon inside. 

His first attempts were feeble, and he glowered at the broth which spilled down his chin. As with everything else though, Derek was a quick study, and soon was able to hold the spoon in what was likely a once familiar grip and feed himself with little incident. 

The mood at the table was easy, light with Stiles and Allison’s timid yet playful banter. Stiles finally made Derek’s mouth quirk into the beginnings of a smile when he managed to spill his own mouthful down his front, a potato slipping past into the opening of his shirt. Allison hid her face in her hands as she tried to tamper down her own laughter, but suddenly Derek’s nose flared and his head cocked to the side. His eyes narrowed, senses honing in on something, which Stiles only recognized himself just before the doors opened, admitting the hunters from the woods. 

Stiles could feel Derek tense against him even as his own blood ran cold. He twined Derek’s fingers in his own, squeezing them tight in reminder to stay calm, stay in control. He swallowed hard when one of the hunters looked towards them, the one with pale eyes and a cold stare. 

Flushing deep, Allison meekly excused herself before standing, crossing the room to greet the pale eyed hunter with a kiss on the cheek and welcoming “father.”

Derek’s fingers tightened around his own at the anxious skip in Stiles’ heartbeat, but Stiles forced himself to resume his meal and keep one ear on the pair before him. The hunter and his daughter spoke in hushed tones, much too quiet for a mere human to hear, so Stiles kept his face impassive so as not to give the man any additional cause for suspicion. He squeezed Derek’s hand a final time before releasing him as Allison urged her father forward in their direction. “Follow my lead” he urged under his breath, knowing Derek’s keen ears would receive every word. 

“Father,” Allison said, face tight with false pleasantries as she struggled past her own nerves. “These men are brothers who have been burdened by misfortune and are now looking for work...I thought perhaps we could offer them food and lodgings in place of coin.” She cast Stiles a fleeting wince, an apology for thinking on her feet and putting them in a likely unwanted position, but Stiles could find no fault in her. 

The man fixed them with his cold stare, eyes roaming over Derek and then Stiles in turn, brow knit with suspicion. Stiles knew he would not be as easily swayed as his daughter, disquieted by the attention the man paid Derek, gaze fixed in search of something, waiting for something. 

“We are most grateful for your daughter’s kindness,” Stiles cut in, a little too loud for natural conversation, but it succeeded in catching the man’s attention. He stood, hands resting on Derek’s shoulders to keep him seated. “If there is any way we can replay you, we would be ready willing.”

The man nodded, but showed little interest in Stiles’ placating words. “He’s quiet,” he said, indicating Derek with a nod. 

“My brother is mute, sir,” Stiles quickly explained, fingers tightening on Derek’s shoulders in hopes his companion would play along. “He has his wits, but does not speak.”

The hunter’s eyes narrowed, head tilting to the side, eyes dancing between them. Stiles knew he and Derek looked as much of siblings as a cat looked a dog, but he held the man’s gaze and kept his posture, did his best to look as though he had nothing to hide. 

“My daughter has a kind heart, but it is not in my nature to take strangers into my home,” the man insisted, casting his daughter a look which made her bow her head in supplication. 

Unable to stop himself, Stiles scoffed. “A rather curious habit for an innkeeper, sir.” He could feel Derek tense beneath his palms, and did not miss how his insolence drew the barest curl to the grim line of the man’s mouth. 

“Curious or not,” the hunter drawled, hands on his hips. “I prefer to know who I allow under my roof...where do you come from?”

“Nowhere we plan to return to,” Stiles grit out, of little mind to bare his soul to this arrogant hunter. “If our presence so disquiets you, we will take our leave.” He took a step back, urging Derek to find his feet as well. 

“Father, please,” Allison implored, hand catching at his arm. 

Stiles thought a scant moment they would be allowed to slip away, but just as they turned towards the door, a stern voice bade them to stop. The hairs on Stiles’ neck stood on end, every instinct in him yelling to run while they could, but one glance towards the door betrayed how fruitless that effort would be. Three of the other hunters stood by the door, and there was no telling how many more were outside. Derek’s beta form was ferocious to be sure, but he was not yet the master of his own change, and there was no telling what weaponry these hunters sported. 

They turned back to the innkeeper, the smile spread across his mouth warming his daughter’s affections but not setting Stiles at ease. 

“I fear my daughter will not forgive me if I turn you away,” he said, an arm clasping Allison about the shoulders fondly. “The hour is growing late. Stay the night, and in the morning I will find you both suitable chores; perhaps if all goes well, I can offer employment.”

Stiles had no intention of staying until morning, but nodded all the same, forcing a relieved sigh and feigned a loosening of his shoulders. He looked to Derek, the man’s handsome face knit with uncertainty, but Stiles took his hand in his own and squeezed it placatingly. “Thank you,” he said, returning his attention to the hunter. “My brother and I deeply appreciate your generosity.”

“What are you both called?” the man asked, expectant.

“I’m called Stiles...my brother is Derek.” 

“My family name is Argent,” the man said, hand pressed to his chest. “You may call me Chris, and I believe you’ve met my daughter, Allison.” He turned to his daughter then, urged her forward with a hand pressed to her back. “Why don’t you show Derek to one of the rooms upstairs...I wish to talk a moment with Stiles.”

Stiles could hear the slight click of Derek’s tightly clenched jaw at the suggestion, looked up to find his brow furrowed in distaste. He began to shake his head, but Stiles stopped him with a hand to his chest. “It’s all right...why don’t you go with Allison and lie down, I’ll be there soon.”

Derek’s chest heaved beneath his hand with a shaking inhale, and Stiles could not help but chance the risk and brush his fingers back through Derek’s dark hair, subtly scenting him. “You’re safe,” he whispered. “I’ll join you in a moment...you can trust Allison.”

As if on cue, Allison stepped up beside them, palm tentative against Derek’s arm. She offered him a sweet smile, tenderness in her doe eyes. Derek finally nodded, heart calming with a heavy sigh. His pale eyes bore into Stiles’ demanding he be safe and keep his word, trusting that Stiles would guide them to the right decision. It warmed Stiles, renewed his confidence even as he watched Derek follow Allison towards the stairs. 

No sooner than they were out of sight, Chris dropped the guise of pleasantries, face hardening as he focused his attention back on Stiles. “Come with me,” he said, turning from the great hall and back towards the kitchens.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter was getting a bit long, so breaking it up a bit. Sorry for the delay, school has been insane. Thanks for the patience! Working on more now, want to post again tonight or tomorrow.

Chris bade Stiles to sit at the small table in the kitchen, the top weathered with stains and deep gouges, neither of which Stiles desired to linger on. Stiles tracked the older man’s movements as he strode about the kitchen, fetched a cup from a shelf and set a kettle of water upon the hob. 

“My daughter told me you had both fallen on misfortune,” the hunter said, tone betraying how much stock he put in her claim. He directed his gaze towards Stiles a moment, eyes roaming over his boots and jacket. “Your misfortune must have been great indeed if she found you out in the elements with neither boots nor jacket.”

Stiles’ eyes helplessly flickered down towards the boots Allison had given him, a chill prickling down the length of his spine. “She thought you wouldn’t notice,” he admitted, knowing that denying the claim would be futile. 

“My daughter has a gentle heart...always pitied every lost creature she came upon,” Chris said, reaching into a cabinet only to withdraw a battered tin and a glass bottle. He paused, chest heaving with a short intake of breath before he tilted his head back in Stiles’ direction once more. “I myself am decidedly less trusting.”

Stiles flinched at the grind of wood on wood when the hunter shut the cabinet door. He wrapped his arms about himself, slouching down into his chair as the older man crossed back towards him and came to stand before the table. Chris set down the cup and the tin down before him, the bottle beside them but just out of Stiles’ line of vision. 

Stiles watched unblinking as the older man tugged off the top of the tin, tensing unconsciously at the heady rush of the scent of tea leaves which flooded his keen nostrils. He forced down the learned panic of Peter’s little concoction, the absence of the all too familiar bouquet of foxglove finally loosening the claws of panic. He watched the older man shake a portion of leaves into the cup with a steady hand, closing the can once more when he was satisfied with his measurement. 

“This inn has been in my family for generations,” the man explained, almost conversational were it not for the dark look in his eye. “Mine to protect...a responsibility I take quite seriously...so while your tale of woe may have won my daughter’s good graces, my satisfaction requires additional detail.”

Stiles forced himself to hold that cool gaze, swallowed reflexively but nodded in feeble agreement. “Alright,” he conceded, tongue peeking out to wet his dry lips. 

Chris leaned against the roughened table, hands folded before him. “Where do you come from?”

Stiles knew he would not have much time to formulate any calculated answers, that the closest truth he could afford would serve him best and lend the most authenticity. This hunter could not smell a lie as a Were could, but Stiles had little doubt his detection would be just as keen. “Why does it matter where we come from if we have no intention to ever return?” Stiles asked, almost petulant. 

The hunter sighed, his patience visibly waning. “It matters to me,” he ground out, no room for further discussion. “I take issue with housing strangers who have so much to hide. Your refusal to answer gives rise to a suspicion you fear I would find the truth unsavory.”

Stiles gaped at him, mouth slack as he tried to think of a rebuttal. He rubbed his sweat slick palms against his tattered breeches, fingers curling futile against his thighs in frustration. “You mistake my reluctance, sir,” he insisted, hands raised in shaky surrender. “It is not out of any lack of gratitude towards your hospitality, but out of a desire to remain as far from our former tormentor as possible.”

“You’re running from someone,” Chris concluded, brows furrowing further. 

Stiles nodded. “Our uncle” the lie flowed easy from his tongue, felt true enough as Peter had been the only man in Stiles’ life after his father’s passing. “He was a cruel man, and we long to keep our distance.”

The older man’s brows pinched skeptically. “From the look of you both, you’ve been running for some time. Surely you’d put enough space behind you by now.”

The kettle on the hob began to hiss, the rattling lid momentarily drawing Stiles’ attention. His breath caught with a sudden invoked memory as he eyed the iron pot and its curls of protruding steam. He was on Peter’s bed, wrists bound fast above him, ankles likewise secured. The bed dipped as Peter sat beside him, steaming cup in his hand as he took Stiles by the nape and forced his up to accept his punishment. “Drink,” the man had threatened. “Or I’ll make you wish you had.”

Stiles shuddered, eyes tearing from the hearth to return to the hunter before him. “Trust me,” he said, eyes prickling with heat and throat thick. He licked his lips, blinking to clear his eyes. “No distance is too great.”

“Your brother,” Chris began, pulling himself to his feet and returning to the hearth with a towel in hand. “Allison said he was kept locked in a cage, that his mutism is learned. What was the cause of such treatment?” Gripping the towel in one hand, Chris carefully took the kettle from the hob, carrying it back to the table. 

Stiles frowned, anger stirring within him. “Cause?” he snapped, remembering the fear in Derek’s eyes when he’d regained his human form for the first time, the tenderness with which he held Stiles in their little cave. “There was no cause of his mistreatment, save our uncle’s sadism. For nothing but his own pleasure he kept my brother chained in his cellars like a beast, beat and neglect him until he was like some feral creature. Were it not for our escape, he may yet have become so.”

The hunter’s eyes narrowed at that, pale blue gaze boring into Stiles in search of any falter, any indication he spoke false. 

“Yet here you sit,” the man observed, hand indicating Stiles. “Faculties still very much intact. Were you then spared such treatment?”

Stiles hated the smug manner with which the hunter spoke to him, with the cocky curve of his mouth as though he thought he’d caught Stiles in a lie, and was waiting for Stiles to fall into it and expose himself. Stiles curled his lip and pressed his palms to the tabletop, leaning forward so he could lower his voice and meet the hunter’s gaze head on. “His uses for me were much more carnal in nature,” he sneered, delighting at how the man’s face fell into a careful mask which failed to completely hide his surprise. “My cage may have been a feather bed, but it was a cage nonetheless.”

Stiles bit back the swell of self satisfaction at how the hunter’s brows rounded slightly, reminiscent of his daughter’s. He could tell the man was taken aback by his confession, took advantage to lean forward, let his shoulders list to the side and look up through his lashes at the older man. “You could have me too...if it would secure our safety for the night…”

Chris immediately shook his head, leaning back in his chair, effectively moving out of arm’s reach. “That won’t be necessary,” he insisted, taking up the glass bottle and holding it level for Stiles to see, keeping careful watch of the boy’s face. “Do you know what this is?”

Stiles frowned as he examined the familiar purple buds contained within the bottle. They looked like the flowers he’d drugged Peter with in the caravan, but couldn’t be certain. He shook his head, arms wrapping about himself defensively as realization dawned of the older man’s intentions. Stiles’ stomach curdled as Chris pulled out the cork stopper and shook a portion of the buds into his palm, thumb spreading them out in a thin layer for Stiles’ benefit before he crushed them in his palm and sprinkled them atop the tea leaves in the cup. 

He scarcely breathed as he watched Chris take up the still steaming kettle and carefully pour it into the cup. Stiles’ nostrils flared at the earthen aroma of the tea, an unfamiliar undertone which Stiles surmised to be from the purple flower. While the foxglove was certainly absent, Stiles could feel the coils of familiar anxiety tightening around his chest, shortening his breaths. Be the time Chris removed the leaves with a spoon, Stiles was practically panting, body jerking back in unconscious response when Chris pushed the cup towards him. 

“Something wrong?” Chris asked, brow quirked in expectation.

Stiles stared at the cup and murky liquid within, barely hearing the hunter’s question. He was shaking, body wound too tight to allow him to speak. “What….what is that?” he asked on a heady rush of breath. 

“Nothing you need fear if you are indeed but weary travelers,” Chris assured, tone almost gentle. “You’re trembling...what reason have you to fear a simple flower.” He palmed the glass jar where it sat upon the table, raising it once more, inviting Stiles to inspect it. 

Stiles shook his head, fingers clenching against the edges of his chair as heat began to prickle at his eyes. “It’s not what you think” he insisted, tongue swiping across his dry lips as he blinked back unwanted tears. “My uncle...he used to drug me when I refused him...made me ill enough that I learned to beg for his touch to avoid such punishment.” He swallowed hard against the words, breath hitching as a tear finally broke free. He knew he was not in Peter’s caravan, but the terror returned just as potent. Stiles angrily swiped his palm across his cheek, clearing away the traces of emotions he did not want this smug hunter privy to. 

Chris leaned forward, hand hovering above Stiles’ knee before he thought better of it and pulled away. His expression eased though, brows rounding and tone softer when next he spoke. “If you have nothing more to hide, you need not worry. The strain of this flower is harmless to most, but I would be sure you are truly immune before allowing you beneath my roof, near my family. It is not a chance I will take again.”

Stiles nodded, shoulders slumped with resignation as he reached for the cup. Before raising it, he met Chris’ eyes once more. “If most are immune, to what manner of man is it dangerous?”

The man must have found something amusing in his words, because he smiled, a secretive gesture Stiles guessed was unintentional. “Nothing you should hopefully ever encounter,” was all the man said in return, a small wave indicating Stiles should drink.

Stiles did. He took two long sips, the liquid warming his throat and belly as he forced it down. He wrinkled his nose at the bitter aftertaste, but it was otherwise not too unpleasant. He raised the cup for a third drink when Chris raised a hand to stop him, pale eyes searching his face for any reaction. When minutes had passed and Stiles had only smacked his lips to rid himself of the earthen taste, Chris nodded with satisfaction. 

“Come,” the man said, standing from the table. “I’ll show you to your room.”

Stiles dutifully followed the older man up the stairs, wiping away the last remnants of his tears and pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off the burn of impending ones. He would not return to Derek looking distressed, would not be the cause of the other man losing control. He followed Chris to the heavy wooden door, nodded at him in parting when the older man opened it just enough for him to slip inside. 

Relieved to finally be free of the hunter’s scrutiny, Stiles, slumped back against the closed door, expelling the shaky breaths he’d been holding all the way up the stairs. He may have passed the hunter’s tests for the night, but there was little doubt that the longer they stayed, the more they risked discovery. As soon as Stiles heard the innkeeper's own door close down the hall, he strode forward towards the windows. 

Derek looked up from where he’d been curled beside the bed, watched Stiles with a furrowed brow as Stiles drew open the simple curtain, moonlight streaming in to illuminate the darkened room. “We’re getting out of here,” Stiles tossed over his shoulder, voice barely a whisper but clear enough for Derek to make out. 

The werewolf was up from the floor in a flash, chest pressed close behind him even before Stiles could reach for the window latch. Before he could lay hand on the latch though, Stiles felt a burst of energy against his fingertips, his hand propelled away as though he’d been pushed. Derek caught his arm to steady him, spare hand pressed against Stiles’ belly. 

Stiles gaped down at the window, mouth slack and cheeks burning as he tried again, only to be met by similar resistance. “I can’t touch it,” he sputtered, eyes wide. He tried once more with the same result, an invisible barrier denying him access. “Derek...what is this?”

Derek pulled Stiles back against his chest, pivoting so that he could reach out himself, but he too was unable to reach the latch. He shook his head, emitting a low rumble from deep in his throat before rasping “No touch...ash.”

Stiles felt himself begin to panic then, trapped in this room surrounded by men who would see them killed if they knew their true identity. He wished they had never entered that barn, that they’d taken their leave when they had the chance…

Warm arms twined about his waist, pulling Stiles back against the solid bulk of Derek’s body. The man’s nose rubbed behind his ear, breath rustling the hair at Stiles’ nape as Derek nuzzled him with a whine, cheek scratchy on the soft skin of Stiles’ neck. The effect was immediate, Stiles heartbeat slowing and panic waning as he was thoroughly scented. His head, suddenly too heavy for him to support, fell back against Derek’s shoulder, effectively baring his throat for Derek, a gesture of trust rather than submission. Stiles reached back to twine his fingers in Derek’s thick hair, the contact soothing his fears and worries until they were manageable once again.

“Hurt, Stiles?” Derek asked, voice small in his concern. 

Stiles shook his head, taking one of Derek’s hands in his own and clutching it to his chest. “I don’t want to be here,” he confessed, eyes sliding shut. “That man...he’s too suspicious. I think he suspected I was a wolf like you, and tried to make me turn with herbs. Do not drink anything he gives you, or eat anything you did not see prepared.”

Derek nodded against him in agreement, head bowing forward until his chin rested on Stiles’ shoulder. 

“If they catch us trying to leave, they’ll kill us.” No sooner had he spoken the words, he knew they were true. Leaving now would only confirm the hunter’s suspicions, and while his methods had not worked on Stiles, they certainly would on Derek. 

The rest of the night still before them, Stiles resolved to get some much deserved rest. Pulling from Derek, Stiles flopped back upon the mattress, groan almost obscene at the give of the feather down inside. He closed his eyes with another contented hum, wriggling himself towards one side until he had made enough space for Derek to lay down as well. He could hear the his companion shuffling about, but paid him little mind until several minutes had passed and Derek was still not beside him. Stiles craned his neck up to look about the room, frowning when he saw Derek had foregone the bed altogether and laid once more upon the wooden floor. 

“What are you doing?” Stiles whispered, squinting in the low light as he peered over the edge of the mattress. “There’s plenty of room, come join me.” 

Derek huffed, rising to his knees beside the bed so he was eye level with Stiles. He shuffled forward, getting close enough to lean in and sniff at Stiles and the bedding around him. Stiles raised his arms, waggling his fingers to entice Derek closer, but the Were just glowered at him, nostrils flaring as he sniffed the bed in distaste. As a fox, Stiles’ nose was quite keen as well, though he supposed he’d had more opportunity to learn to ignore his heightened senses when it pleased him. Other people’s spaces, other people’s beds, they were all he’d known since he was a child. 

With a heavy sigh, Stiles stood once more, lamenting the loss of the lumpy yet comfortable mattress. He gathered the quilt and pillow into his arms, hauling the heavy bundle across the bed and to the floor where Derek remained crouched. Stiles shooed him aside with a wave of his hand before dropping his armful to the floor, arranging it into a nest much like they shared in their cozy cave. They didn’t dare shift, but they could lie together, find comfort in one another. 

Dropping down onto the blanket with a huff, Stiles raised his arms out to Derek, beckoning the man down beside him. Derek proved only too happy to comply, nearly knocking the air out of Stiles when he fell upon him. They ended up with Stiles’ cheek pressed to Derek’s chest, leg draped over Derek’s own and their fingers twined together. 

“Hurt?” Derek asked again after some moments of silence, pulling Stiles closer with the arm looped about his waist. 

Stiles nodded against Derek’s collarbone, nuzzling him idly. “He tried to test me...gave me tea infused with purple flowers Peter used on you. He believed me a werewolf, but as a fox it had no effect. I think he wants to pity us, but it goes against his nature.” He sighed happily when Derek raised a hand to palm at his nape, card his fingers through Stiles’ hair as Stiles had done for him in the past. 

“We’re going to be alright,” Stiles promised, as much to himself as to Derek. “We can do this.” The words began to finally ring true when Derek shifted beneath him, nudging Stiles’ head up with his own until he could kiss the boy tenderly. 

“Love you, Stiles,” Derek murmured, warm breath rustling his hair.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg, and update!! Sorry for the long wait, RL has been kicking my butt. Going to keep writing tonight, and will have some time tomorrow as well. Fingers crossed!! We're getting SO close to the end!

Allison roused them early the next morning, sheepish and flushed as she fetched them for her father. The hunter seemed to have taken her suggestion of offering them work to heart, as they were chopping wood as the sun rose. Derek had watched Stiles pitifully try to split the heavy logs before he gingerly took the axe in hand himself, fingers flexing around the handle to test the weight as Stiles instructed him how to swing it. Derek took a practice swing before bringing the axe down hard into the center of the log, cleaving it in half and embedding the axe deep into the stump beneath. Allison’s brows rose in surprise, mouth agape when Derek effortlessly pulled the axe from the stump, the blade leaving a deep gouge in its wake. 

“Careful,” he warned when Allison retreated back into the kitchen with her first bundle of wood. “Your strength gives you away.”

Ever the quick study, Derek managed to put on an effect of fatigue before Chris came out to inspect their work. Allison sang their praises as she bundled split logs into Derek’s arms, insisting they would have all the fires lit in record time. The hunter seemed pleased, trusting enough of Derek that he insisted he help his daughter alone while Stiles took position in the kitchens. 

“Can you cook?” Chris asked as they entered the stuffy room, the fire blazing in the hearth. 

“Well enough,” Stiles replied, drawing near when Chris beckoned him with the crook of a finger. Stiles stilled when the man reached into a bulging satchel at his side, sighing in relief when the older man merely withdrew several lifeless rabbits and deposited them on the worn table. 

“Do you know how to butcher them?” Chris questioned, brow cocked in anticipation. 

Stiles shook his head. He had always been quite partial to a plump rabbit in the winter, but his fox form, his meals required a good deal less preparation. 

Chris nodded, waving him closer still as he took of one rabbit and selected a sharp knife from his belt. He worked quickly, trusting Stiles to be able to replicate the movements from memory. Once the skin had been parted from the muscle, he efficiently quartered it with swift chops and pops of bone from joint. When finished, he wiped himself clean on a towel before handing Stiles the blade, a pointed warning in his cool gaze. 

Stiles plucked the knife from the man’s hands, managing to replicate the hunter’s practiced ministrations, if with decidedly less artistry. Chris seemed pleased enough though, and nodded as he turned to move about the kitchen, fetching baskets containing various roots and vegetables. 

“My darling daughter is accomplished well enough at simple fare, though I am sure she would appreciate help in the kitchens. Cooking, serving meals, clearing dishes...more laborious tasks for your brother.” Chris withdrew several onions and cloves of garlic, along with a sack of barley, arranging them carefully on the table before continuing. “In turn you’ll have room and board. If all goes well and you stay on into the spring months, a wage can considered.” 

Stiles nodded, by no means anticipating that he and Derek would keep on past the week, if even the evening, but practically giddy for even a temporary respite of a roof, regular meal, and proper bed. That the man would entrust Derek alone with his daughter and offer them position meant he believed Stiles, at least for the time being. He watched carefully as Chris peeled and chopped, carefully copying until the man approved of his work, and then he was left to his own devices. He was surprised at the delight he felt in preparing a meal, the pride that swelled while cleaning the scraps when he’d finished. 

They were instructed to bathe that night, clear themselves of all traces of their travels and be presentable to guests. Derek hadn’t known what to make of the wooden tub, frowning at it suspiciously, eyes narrowing further in distrust when Stiles worked a cake of soap into a lather against a rag. He wasn’t keen on the initial scrubbing, but remained still so Stiles could continue his ministrations. His interest piqued when Stiles took the rag to his own body, nostrils flaring when Stiles soaped beneath his arms and around his sex. Derek crowded against him, nose dragging along the line of his throat and across his collarbones. 

Derek whined on a sharp inhale, pulling Stiles closer against him. “Smell....” he pouted against Stiles’ skin, petulant and wanting. “Not you, Stiles.” 

Stiles leaned forward, tip of his own nose trailing along the wolf’s prickled jaw until their lips brushed. “Come back to our room then, and cover me in yours.”

They intended to stay one more night, but one became three, and three then became eight. The work was enough to give them purpose in their day to day, and the nights in the feather bed Stiles finally convinced Derek to sleep in were cozy and comfortable. Stiles felt the tightness ease from his chest with every morning he woke to nothing but the sight of Derek’s peaceful sleeping form. It was the longest Peter had ever gone without finding him, and Stiles dared to hope that maybe this time, the older man had finally given up. He began to think that they could do this, work in the inn with Allison and her father, sleep in the barn with Derek on the full moon until he’d remastered his control. 

Stiles rode Derek one night, hips rocking in a languid unhurried pace, reveling in the feel of Derek’s cock pushing deep inside him. Peter had enjoyed making Stiles do this, loved when Stiles writhed atop him, and Stiles had learned to put on a show and give the man what he wanted. He’d hated it then, but seeing Derek laid out before him, an almost helpless pinch in his brows, filled him with a surge of unexpected satisfaction. 

Resting both hands on Derek’s sturdy chest for support, Stiles arched his back, eyes fluttering shut when Derek’s prick nudged inside him just so. He swiveled his hips, biting back a moan when Derek jerked up into him with a sharp cry. Stiles flailed, quickly covering the Were’s mouth with his hand until he could lean down and replace it with his mouth. It was overwhelming really, something Stiles had never dared to dream for himself. To be with a man he loved, who loved him in turn, free to stay or leave as he pleased. Sometimes he didn’t want to go to sleep for fear he’d wake up and be back at the carnival. 

He supposed it was this happiness which made him complacent. 

They’d been working all morning, Stiles scrubbing the floors and Derek baling hay for the horses in the stables. Derek had come in for his lunch, bits of hay stuck in his hair. Stiles had taken advantage of their moment alone to lean up and press a quick kiss to Derek’s lips. He pulled away just as Allison walked through the door, bow slung over her shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, gaze resolutely on the floor. 

Stiles worried she’d seen them, heart in his throat as she tilted her head up to fix them with a smile too broad to not be forced. She held up a small bundle of rabbits, pushing them against Stiles’ chest. “A good catch today,” she offered, sweet yet awkward as she flushed further. 

When she turned to leave, Stiles scurried after her, signaling Derek to wait where he was. He was only wearing a shirt, the sleeves rolled up from the heat of the kitchens, and he shivered when he rushed out after her, arms folding over his chest to keep warm. “Allison!” he called, running when she kept on walking. 

She finally stilled when he caught up to her, shoulders drawn up in her discomfort when she turned. They stood for a time, neither speaking, neither wanting to be the first to speak. It was Stiles who broke the stalemate first, words bubbling forth in a desperate attempt to sway her. 

“I’m sure that looked strange, but I assure you-”

She shook her head, hands waving before her to stop him. “Don’t, Stiles-”

“My brother needed much tenderness to repair the damage done by our uncle,” he went on, hoping to play on her heartstrings as he’d done in the past. 

Allison frowned then, lips pursing in displeasure at his words. “I may not have been given brothers, Stiles,” she said, voice low with obvious discretion. “But I would not have taken him into my bed if I had.”

Stiles scoffed, attempting to mask his rising panic. “You misunderstood...he communicates more through touch, it’s innocent.”

“And the moans coming from your room?” Allison snapped. “More ‘brotherly’ comfort?” Her words were past her lips before she could contain them. She covered her mouth with her hands, eyes wide at her own outburst as Stiles’s stomach dropped, blood ice in his veins. 

Unthinking, he took a step towards her which she immediately retreated from, her stance defensive and nose wrinkled in distaste for what she took to be his nonverbal admittance to her lewd insinuation. He held his hands up to put her at ease, heart pounding in his chest in fear she would run before he could properly explain. 

“Derek and I are not brothers,” Stiles confessed, words hushed but sharp. “I’m sorry I lied to you, Allison, but I thought it was necessary at the time.” He could see her anger melt into obvious hurt, her eyes wide and lips parted as she struggled for some sort of reply. 

“I mislead you, but it was not in malice. I care deeply for Derek and him for me...it was easier to call him brother to express the strength of our bond. We did both escape from a mutual captor, and Derek was abused as I previously spoke of.” The truth of it brought heat to his face, his eyes itching with the promise of tears, and he dug his blunt nails into his palms as a distraction. “Be angry with me if you must, but please, don’t tell your father.”

She eyed him warily, fingers nervously tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear. Both of them turned with a start at the sound of the kitchen door opening, the loud creak of the metal latch alerting them despite their distance. Derek emerged from the doorway, brows knit with worry as he took in the mutual tension between them, furrowing further when he saw the wet sheen of Stiles’ eyes. He moved forward quickly, ignoring the hand Stiles help up to still him. 

“I’m alright,” Stiles murmured when Derek drew near, the tightness in his chest finally loosening when Derek’s warm palm closed over the nape of his neck, a subtle scenting gesture which thankfully could be masked as comfort. Allison shifted, likely in unease as she was now outnumbered, the movement catching Stiles’ attention and grounding him once more in the present. “Allison heard us last night,” he confessed, voice low but loud enough for Allison to hear as well, not wanting her to think he was conspiring further. “She knows we’re not really brothers.” When Derek’s eyes widened in alarm, Stiles gently squeezed his shoulder to assure him they were not -at least at that moment- in danger. “We’ve broken your trust and would understand if you wanted us to leave,” Stiles conceded, heart heavy at the realization that may likely be her wish, not eager to return to the road once more after their comfortable time in the inn. “I only beg you not to tell your father...I don’t think he will care to understand our reasons and worry how he may retaliate.”

“My father is not a cruel man,” Allison cut in, petulant but appearing less angry by the second. She crossed her arms over her chest, shoulders hunched against the cold. Her gaze kept flitting to Derek as she bit the corner of her lip, her expressive eyes betraying her every thought and conflicting emotion. She shifted, jaw ticked to the side as she examined them both. “There’s nothing else?” she asked, voice gentle but tone demanding all the same. “No other secrets you’ve been keeping I should know of?”

Stiles was struck with a sudden and nearly overwhelming desire to tell her exactly who they were...what they were. He longed to trust Allison, deepen the connection they had been building all this time, and if she were not born into the family she was, he likely would have. It was simply too great a risk though, so he swallowed down the truthful urge and shook his head. “Beyond the false familial relations, everything else I told you was true.”

She stood rigid a moment longer, eyes darting back and forth between them for any tick or tell of falsehood. Stiles’ heartbeat raced as he waited for her reply, so expectant of words that she quite nearly knocked him to the ground when she surged forwards and wrapped both him and Derek in her arms. 

“No more lies,” she insisted once more, stepping back enough to once more meet their gaze, her hands still firm on either of their shoulders. “It is so lonely here at the inn, it’s been years since I had anyone I could call a friend...and I long to hold you both as such. Let us begin again anew.” She embraced them each once more, discreetly wiping at her eyes before she finally turned and made her way back inside. 

Stiles watched her leave, guilt curdling in his gut as he fought back every instinct to chase after her, tell her the truth. She was the first true ally they had come across, and Stiles felt sickened to lie to her, ashamed that he had so easily taken advantage of her good nature. Whatever measure of man her father was, Stiles was not yet certain, but Allison was a good person, softhearted and kind. A quick glance to Derek told him the other man felt the same, regret set into the firm line of his mouth. 

“Perhaps in time,” Stiles murmured, pressing a palm to Derek’s neck to scent him as the Were liked. “If all continues to go well and we both desire it, we can tell her.”

Derek nodded, appeased for the time being. 

They were more careful with their affections after that, both out of consideration for Allison and to be sure not to alert anyone else at the inn, especially her father. Stiles’ daily duties kept him more confined to the kitchens while Allison and Derek tended the bedrooms, changed the linens and kept the fires burning. Chris mostly kept to the woods with his band of hunters, patrolling the area and bringing back dead rabbits and once a deer for Stiles to break down and cook with. Chris treated the skins himself, collecting the rendered fat with a promise to show Stiles how to make soap. 

There was much to learn from a man of many skills such as Chris, but while maintaining a polite civility with the man, Stiles kept his distance. He couldn’t help but remember the Omega in the woods, the delight with which the man before him seemed to take in killing the wretched creature. Couldn’t help but remember the cold determination that night in the kitchens when Chris had made him drink concoction with the dried flowers. Instead he did his best to help Derek learn to control his change, kept his head down, and did what was expected of him, no more, no less. Derek had promised to do the same, but during their time together, Stiles had come to learn that the man’s resolve weakened around those he cared for. 

* * * * * 

He was in the woods, skin bare and pebbled from the cold. His chest heaved, lungs aflame as they struggled to drag in air, head throbbing in time with his hammering heartbeat. Branches whipped past his face as he ran, stinging when they tore at his flesh. A howl sounded behind him, and Stiles spun about, eyes darting desperately through the trees for sign of Derek. He screamed the man’s name til he was hoarse, voice catching in his dry throat. He licked his lips, desperate to try again when a voice called out his name, close enough for breath to rustle the wisps of hair at Stiles’ nape. 

Stiles woke with a start, torn from the dream so fiercely that it left him breathless, disoriented. The hairs at his nape still stood on end as he came to, standing further to full attention when his vision cleared enough to take in a shadowy figure hovering above him. 

He jerked with a start, legs kicking frantically at the man as he flailed, but the figure immediately lurched out, fingers like iron where they gripped his wrists and pressed him down into the bed, hoping him fast. The mere flash of pale blue eyes proved enough to fill his veins with ice, wrack his body with shudders as he writhed. “Don’t touch me,” he spat in desperation, teeth clenched hard enough he feared his jaw might crack as his eyes burned with the onset of tears. “Don’t touch me…”

“Stiles-”

He wheezed, unable to draw sufficient air into his lungs as the hands released him, the figure stepping leaning back just enough that the pale sliver of light which slipped past the heavy curtains could reveal the face of the man above him. Stiles’ dream was still so vivid, he swore he saw Peter a split second before the man’s smug satisfaction shifted into Chris Argent, the hunter’s face lined with horror as he surveyed the panicked youth before him. 

Chris raised his hands, palms out to placate the still near frantic Stiles. “It’s all right,” he insisted, voice hushed like he was gentling a small child or frightened animal. 

The smell hit him then, acrid in his nose and mouth as he dragged in gasps of air. Chris moved above him, drawing his attention only to find the man looking down at him with a pained furrow to his brow, face pinched in what Stiles recognized with sinking clarity as pity. Chest still heaving, Stiles followed the man’s gaze to his lap, saw the dark stain between his legs before he felt how the material of his trousers stuck tacky to his skin from the wetness. He gaped down at himself, still too keyed up to process what had just happened. His cheeks burned with humiliation as he stared down at the stain, the urine rapidly cooling in a most unpleasant fashion. His hands still trembled from lingering visions of Peter as he wrapped his arms about himself, curling his shoulders in to try and hide his shame, though he knew the hunter had already seen. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, hand hovering uncertain over the stain as he feebly shifted to his knees, doing his best to keep the wetness from the blanket he and Derek would be sharing later. “I’m sorry...I-”

“Stiles.”

Stiles’ head whipped up at the sound of his own name, his instinct to run itching under his skin when he realized Chris was sitting directly above him. With a heavy sigh, the hunter sank to his knees before him, his hand once more finding the back of Stiles’ neck. The gesture would have made him tense anew, but the the touch was gentle, almost remorseful in its tenderness. 

“Breathe.” The word was calm, the deep and even tenor breaking through the tightness in his chest, much like his own father’s had done when he was a child. He dragged in a shaking gust of much needed air, his lungs burning from its absence. 

“I’m sorry-” he began again, but Chris shook his head. 

“Give me a moment, don’t move, alright?” 

Stiles nodded with a sniffle, watched Chris carefully rise once more to his feet before leaving the room, returning a few moments later with a small bundle in each hand. 

“Can you stand?” 

Stiles nodded, head bobbing as he shakily wiped against his face, finding the skin there wet with tears. Carefully, he rose from the bed, nose wrinkling his distaste at how his trousers clung to him. His legs felt unsteady, knees taking a moment to find their bearings, and he accepted the help when Chris reached out a hand to steady him so that he could push down his soiled breeches. The hunter made no attempt to look at his bared body, his purposeful avoidance easing Stiles’ lingering worries. He accepted the wetted cloth readily, turning his body for a modicum of privacy as he wiped his thighs and groin clean. Stiles turned to find Chris’ back to him, the hunter not facing him again until he had donned the fresh breeches Chris had supplied. 

“Who were you dreaming about?” Chris asked over his shoulder, tone gentle but unyielding.

Stiles shook his head, not wanting to think on it again, not with the nightmare still so vivid. 

“Stiles,” Chris insisted, turning once more to face him when Stiles sat once more upon the bed, knees tucked up against his chest. “I can’t help you unless you tell me.”

Stiles shook his head again, corners of his mouth tugging as he felt more tears well up unbidden. He didn’t want to break again in front of Chris, felt too bared as it was before the other man. “It’s nothing” he insisted, knowing full well how empty the sentiment felt.

Chris remained patient, a hand this time settling atop Stiles’ shoulder, a neutral enough place that it didn’t make him flinch away. He offered Stiles a pointed look, brow quirked against the obvious deflection. “Was it your uncle?”

Stiles nodded, eyes falling to his hands in his lap. He wiped angrily at his eyes, teeth clenching when fresh tears fell in their wake. “He always finds me,” he admitted, the unsteady words spilling before he could stop them. “Every time it’s worse...if he finds me again…”

Chris’ palm came to rest atop Stiles’ only to release him immediately when the boy flinched away. He leaned forward instead, voice low and steady, gaze never wavering. “If he finds you, Stiles, I’ll protect you. You needn’t worry about that any longer.”

Stiles sniffed, wanting desperately to trust in him, but knowing it was far from wise. “You don’t know him,” he lamented. “He’s - dangerous.”

The corner of Chris’ mouth quirked, a secret smile Stiles knew the basis of only all too well. “We’re quite…capable here, Stiles,” he insisted, offering the boy one more pat on the shoulder, squeezing as he stood. “Why don’t you go back to sleep, I’ll have Allison help me in the kitchens before dinner.”

Stiles remained tucked up against the wall as Chris stood, watched the man walk towards his closed door before he it finally occurred to him that the man had entered his room before and interrupted his nap. “Why were you here?” he asked, pulling the blanket further up into his lap. “Why did you come into my room?”

Chris paused, one hand heavy on the door frame. His hesitation was brief, but heavy in its deliberation. When he looked back, Stiles knew his next words would be a lie. 

“Nothing.” Chris shook his head. “You were calling out in your sleep...from your nightmare.”

The lack of Derek’s thunderous presence meant Stiles couldn’t have been that loud, the wolf’s hearing too keen and instinct to protect too honed. He stayed in his room that afternoon, grateful when Derek came up later with his supper. Were he able to open the ash sealed windows, he would have done so to air the room, the telltale stink of anxiety still lingering in the air when Derek arrived. Derek’s brows immediately knit, worry clear on his handsome face only intensifying when Stiles tried to wave him off. 

“It’s nothing,” Stiles lied, quickly sharing the encounter with Derek, whose face contorted with mounting guilt with every word. “Did something happen?” Stiles asked, head cocked as he carefully studied the Were’s face for further explanation. 

“Allison,” Derek said admitted, the confession bestowed with a grimace. “Kettle too hot, burned hand…hurt...pain.”

“Allison burned herself on the kettle, and you took her pain?” Stiles guessed, his chest tightening ever so at the helpless agreement in Derek’s eyes. “You healed her pain and Chris saw it...he likely came to confront me-”

At this Derek emphatically shook his head no, clasping their hands together and drawing the blanket over them to cover them from sight. “Hid, no see,” he insisted, pointing to the blanket. 

Stiles frowned at that, grateful that Derek had thought to take precautions but curious what had so roused the man’s suspicions then. He didn’t understand until later that night, when Allison entered the kitchens, her right hand carefully bandaged to the wrist. 

“What did you do!” he cried before he could stop himself, taking up her hand in his own. 

She flushed at once, cheeks gone ruddy as she tried to take back her hand and hide her face with the other. “It was silly really, I took hold of the kettle with my bare hand to pour it after removing it from the hob. I could have burned myself on the boiling water if Derek hadn’t taken it from me. He was lucky to get by unscathed, it all just happened so fast, he must not have gripped it as sure as I.”

Stiles wanted to bury his face in his hands. Of course he had rushed to Allison’s aid, the great Soft Wolf...Chris hadn’t needed to see Derek take her pain, because he saw the man grasp a scalding kettle and not burn. “My brother’s nature, to be sure,” he sighed, a little prickle running up the length of his spine at the realization of how close they’d come to discovery. “Always worrying after others but never himself.”

Though he couldn’t bring himself to scold Derek for his carelessness, Stiles made sure the man understood to be on his guard in the following days. Chris still treated him with kid gloves, guilt obvious in every glance and mannerism. Even Allison noticed, her brow furrowing in question towards Stiles when her father gave him a wide berth in the kitchen. He shook his head, insisted it was nothing, and though she smiled and shrugged, she kept careful watch in the following days. 

Though it pained him, Stiles knew they could not stay much longer. They decided to wait out the week, taking every opportunity they could to squirrel away bits of food which would keep, and a few stray garments, the owners of which were no longer there to miss them. Stiles kept everything carefully hidden, not wanting to draw attention to their endeavors despite the fact that no one ever seemed to enter their room in their absence. They were paid no wages, but given the proper provisions could likely make it to another town without becoming too bedraggled, and gain further employment there. Their lie of Derek’s mutism would suffice until the man’s speech was fully restored. Stiles had little doubt that given another month or two, Derek would likely speak as clearly as he himself did. 

Their departure finally decided, Stiles poured himself into his work, longing to pass the time as swiftly as possible. He tried not to think on it too much, not wanting to overly excite himself or second guess their decision for thoughts of missing Allison. They had built a kinship with the girl, and while they would remember her fondly, they could not risk continued contact with her. Chris’ hackles would rise again at their departure, and Stiles did know how far the man would go to confirm them, nor did he care to find out. 

The days had become quite bitter, the cold seeping in through the heavy stone and wood of the inn and too inhospitable for travelers along the road. They few visitors they had seemed to know Chris, hunters if Stiles had to guess, so he kept the pleasantries brief and his head bowed, allowing his duties to keep him too busy for conversation. He tended the fire in the great hall, scrubbed the slop that had been dragged in from the floor, served supper to the few patrons of the inn and to Chris himself. 

The day had been the same as any other. Derek had worked in the woods behind the inn, cutting wood for the fires and cutting great slabs of ice from the lake with Chris and a few men to bring back and pack with straw for the spring. Stiles had tended to the kitchens, baking bread and plucking a chicken for the evening meal. There were only three other men in the dining hall when he went to stoke the fire, each more interested in their ale and conversation than anything he might be doing. As the sun was beginning to set, Stiles took time to light the lanterns, and was just coming down from the rickety stool when he caught whiff of something on the air.

The hair on his neck stood on end, the very room around him seeming to go still as his body as he sniffed again. A fox’s nose was hardly as good as a wolf’s, but there were some scents which clung to him, fixed in his mind with almost visual clarity. 

The candle fell from his lax fingers, but did not clatter upon the floor as it should have. Breath gusted his nape as a hand reached out to catch it instead, deft fingers raising it to Stiles’ shoulder. A shiver rushing down each ridge of his spine as a second exhalation extinguished the candle, close enough to ruffle the hair at his nape. He closed his eyes as the candle was pushed back into his palm, wax still warm against his skin. 

“You should be more careful, my little fox.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to anyone still reading this! Comments/feedback is always greatly appreciated. <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It hasn't been months! WOOO!!! Only one chapter left! I'm on break this next week. Still working, but I'm hoping to finish this fic in the next few days while I have the time (before it becomes a toddler in June, lol). Thanks again to anyone still reading, I deeply appreciate the patience. Comments are always loved and welcome.

Chapter 8

It wasn’t like waking from a nightmare. The blinding panic he’d always felt when imagining this very moment was absent, Stiles’ mind unfavorably clear as he forced himself turn, finally laying eyes on the man himself. 

Peter looked much the same, self contented tug of his lips all too familiar as his eyes languidly roamed down the length of Stiles’ body. Stiles stood rooted in place, body stock still as he focused on breathing, keenly aware of where Peter’s hand still pressed against his own, keeping his fingers curled about the candle. He jerked his hand back in hopes to free himself, but Peter held fast. 

“That was very naughty what you did, Stiles, trying to poison me. Such a clever boy...” Peter gave the faintest tug to Stiles’ wrist, enough to force him down from the stool or lose his balance. Stiles recoiled, nearly stumbling over the stool in his haste to distance himself, but Peter stepped forward after him. His grip moved up to Stiles’ elbow, fingers like iron where they bit into his flesh. “You and my little beastie have had your fun, but it’s time to go home.”

Stiles shook his head, lip trembling as he remembered Peter’s threat back in the caravan, saw the cage as clear as if it were before him. “Please, just leave us be,” he begged. “Why can’t you just leave us be…”

Peter snarled then, the barest curl of his lip but undeniable anger flashed in his blue eyes. “Because you’re mine,” he ground out, words chilling him to the bone. “You belong to me, the both of you, and I will keep what’s mine.”

Stiles began to shake, breath coming hard through his nose, sounding thunderous to his own ears as Peter’s fingers tightened further until Stiles feared his arm would snap clear in half. Tears clouded his ears, but when he blinked them Peter had once more restored his composure. The man tutted at the tear which trailed down Stiles cheek, reaching forward to cup his chin and clear the wetness with a mockingly tender brush of his thumb. “Besides” he practically purred. “You always seemed to enjoy our time together.”

Stiles jerked back when the man’s thumb stroked against his lower lip, anger rising hot in his throat. “Let go of me,” he ordered, arm twisting futilely against the man’s grip. “Let me go…” He glanced over his shoulder, desperate for any sort of aid. Their raised voices had attracted the attention of the three men seated at the long tables, and all stood as they watched on, unsure of how to react. 

All other thought slipped from his mind as he tried to break the point of contact between them, almost sickened at the man’s touch, the lecherous curl of his mouth which betrayed his amusement at Stiles’ struggles. Peter could have dragged Stiles out kicking and screaming, but seemed content to watch him wriggle like a hooked worm, revelling in the boy’s ineffectiveness. 

“Unhand him.”

Stiles whirls as best he can to see Chris approaching them, rifle in his hand. He wants to sob with relief at the cold determination which Chris focuses at Peter, his jaw clenched and hands steady. “Stiles, come stand by me.”

Before Stiles can make any effort towards complying, Peter tugs him back against his own chest, arm entwining him and gripping him by the throat, wringing a frightened cry from the boy’s lips. “This is a private matter,” he states in a clear tone. 

Chris cocked his rifle, now flanked on both sides by two hunters. “The boy has my protection,” he insisted. “You will release him.”

Peter chuckled, head turning until his nose was pressed against Stiles’ temple. “What have you done to garner such protectiveness, hmm?” 

“I won’t ask again,” Chris said, taking one step closer. 

Stiles could feel Peter’s intake of breath as the man prepared a reply, but movement at the door caught both their attention. His heart dropped when he saw Derek standing there, eyes fixed on Peter and almost black with rage. His lip curled in a snarl, animalistic even in human form. 

“Derek…” he tried, voice shaky and broken, barely breaking past his lips in fear as he tried to get the man’s attention. He wanted to tell him to run, to save himself, but before he could find his voice he saw the first ripple of the change. 

The worst of it was the smile spreading Peter’s mouth behind him, triumph flashing in his white teeth. “Come to finally bite the hand that fed you?” he mused, his satisfied tone hinging on pride. The man truly was mad. “Come on then!”

Stiles watched in horror as Derek’s head jerked, eyes opening to reveal their haunting blue. His snarl bared his elongated fangs, handsome face contorting with the shift as his body hunched forward in preparation for attack. Stiles tried to rush forward when Chris swung his rifle to redirect it at Derek, his pleading cries for the man to stop falling on deaf ears as Derek rushed towards Peter. 

It happened in the blink of an eye, no sooner had a cry of “wolf!” rung out then a shot had fired, catching Derek in the shoulder. Stiles screamed his name, arms out to grasp at him even though he was much too out of reach, the move instinctual. There was a flurry of activity about him, a whirring noise he did not recognize as the sound of a loosed arrow until he saw the bolts protruding from Derek’s chest and thigh. 

“No!” Stiles screamed. “Please, don’t hurt him - I beg you, please!” 

It was only when Derek fell to his knees that Stiles managed to break free, the unexpected momentum tripping him up so that he all but fell atop Derek, shielding the man with his own body. He threw his arms about Derek’s neck, clutching him tight, hoping that if they must die, that it would be together. He heard the click of the crossbow bolt falling into place and looked up to see Chris standing there, bolt pointed at Derek. 

“Step back, Stiles,” he warned.

“Please don’t do this,” Stiles begged from where he sat prostrate on his knees, ignoring the other hunters surrounding them. “He only meant to protect me, he means you no harm.”

Chris recoiled at the notion, disgust plain on his normally stoic face. “He’s a monster, Stiles...his very nature is to kill, I cannot allow such a creature loose in my land. That you brought him into my home is crime enough that you could face similar punishment.”

Derek’s wounds bled sluggishly, his skin attempting to heal around bolts which likely were silver. Stiles could hardly see through the tears, hands shaking as they hovered over the worst of Derek’s wounds. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, feeling the fault of it all somehow lay with him. Derek’s head fell forward, nudging against Stiles with a feeble nuzzle which Stiles readily returned. “I love you,” Stiles murmured against Derek’s temple. “I love you-”

Strong hands took him by the arms and dragged him back. Stiles flailed wildly, hoping to dislodge them, but Peter’s grip proved too strong. Derek roared, teeth gnashing as he attempted to pursue the man, but was quickly subdued by a rope about his throat. More men came forward, quickly lashing ropes about Derek’s arms and thighs to hold him fast, likely infused with wolfsbane to be so effective against his brute strength, even in his weakened state. 

Held immobile in Peter’s iron grip, Stiles could do nothing but scream his frustration as he watched Derek be dragged across the room by the band of cheering men. He felt as if slapped when Peter leaned low to whisper into his ear “You brought this on him, pet.” 

He sobbed then, wriggling anew, sick from the hot breath beating down against his face and neck, memory of a wet tongue coursing the length of it. “Let me go,” Stiles seethed. “Don’t touch me!”

Chris was before them in an instant, a hand extended towards Stiles but not yet touching him. “Give me the boy, I will see him properly dealt with.” the man commanded in a low tone, eyes fixed unblinking on Peter. 

Stiles felt the man’s arm curl tighter still about his waist and where he kept Stiles’ own arms held fast to his chest. Peter cocked his head to the side, eyes squinting with a slight shake of his head. “This boy has value to me...I would see him returned to my care to work off his debts rather than killed as you will my poor beast.”

Chris’ eyes narrowed at that. “You knew he was a wolf, then?”

Peter nodded. “I found him several years ago after he’d ransacked several villages, a feral omega without a pack.”

Chris’ face remained stoic, but Stiles could smell the unease beginning to seep from him, the scent more potent after the emotional display of Derek’s reveal. “And you caught him?”

Peter snorted. “I found a value in keeping him alive, so I did. Carefully caged, mind you, he never once got loose until ‘Stiles’ here,” Peter accentuated the word by leasing the arm about his waist to take the boy by the hair and jerk his head back. “Decided to take that which did not belong to him. There were times I could have killed the beast....but I suppose I’m too soft hearted.”

Chris glowered at that, nose curling in a brief betrayal of his own disgust. “I know well what treatment the boy met in your care. Once more, I shall dole his punishment as fit, so release him.”

At the words, Peter actually threw his head back with a hearty laugh. “Whatever sad yarn this little wretch spun to you, he did so to play on your sympathies for his own reward, just as he did with me” Peter blithely imparted. “I found him a whore on the streets-” Stiles cheeks heated at the casual manner with which the man referenced his former lot. He ducked his head in shame when he felt Chris’ eyes upon him, knowing nothing he could say would give him any grace. “I took him into my care out of the goodness of my heart, and in turn he tried to poison me and stole my livelihood, though lord knows why.” 

Stiles shook his head at that, unable to let Peter keep spouting such twisted shades of the truth. “It wasn’t like that, it was never like that!”

Peter silenced him with a jerk of his hair before turning his attention on Stiles, his voice still carrying enough that all in the room could hear. “You only knew him as a beast before that night. Tell me boy, when you first lie with him? Before or after you discovered his change...”

“Abomination.” One of the hunters spat, stepping forward to Chris’ side. “Such deviance should be culled along with the monster itself.”

Stiles shook his head emphatically, imploring Chris with eyes clouded by unshed tears. Chris flashed his cold gaze onto Stiles a brief second before turning bodily from him, coming to face the man beside him, his arms crossed over his chest. “We live by the code,” he reminded him and the other hunters at his back. “We harm neither humans nor children…”

“The code,” another spat. “The Argents are above the code, and it is by our actions that the lands remain purified of such filth.” The first man nodded in agreement, chiming in with an eager ‘If a man lie with an animal, he shall surely be put to death’.” 

A murmur of agreement carried through the group, which Chris himself seemed to consider, eyes still steadfast in their refusal to meet Stiles head on. Stiles swallowed hard, heart racing at the rising stink of anger and hate which began to fill the room. These men were out for blood.

Chris finally held up a hand, silencing them all. He focused on Peter, but was sure to speak loud enough that all in attendance would be able to hear. “By your own admission, the beast was wild, so by our laws it must be put down. The boy we will keep, in the hopes we can teach him the error of his ways.” A rumble of discontent arose, but Chris immediately silenced it. “I will deal with the boy,” he dictated to his hunters and Peter alike. 

Peter’s smile was strained, fingers drumming his irritation against the pulse point on Stiles’ throat. “That does rather put me at an inconvenience. That wolf is my business, you see...I tour him as an exhibition, and it was quite lucrative for me before my assistant here,” he gave Stiles’ neck a sharp squeeze for emphasis. “Lost his head and ran off with him.”

“An unfortunate situation, to be sure,” Chris said, devoid of even affected sympathy. “But only proved the monster was not as secure as you assert he was. We cannot chance such a thing happening again.” 

Peter huffed in his vexation, likely digesting that in this, he would not get his way. “Fine, but the boy,” he gives Stiles another little shake. “Comes with me.”

“The whore is tainted by the beast,” a hunter says, striding up from behind Chris with arms folded defiantly. “He should be put down with it.”

Stiles was struck with an undeniable relief at the hunter’s firm request. He would rather meet his end with Derek, a fate far less matched in cruelty than being turned over to Peter and his sadistic torments. Peter however hauled Stiles closer against him, arm twining defiantly about his waist. “Your little code may lay claim to my wolf, but I have invested much in Stiles. He stole from me and maligned my good name...I will have satisfaction in this.”

“He lay with an animal!” another hunter spat. “Cull him with the wolf!”

Peter sighed at that. “This bickering is pointless,” he insisted. “Provide me a room for tonight, and I will secure the boy there so that you and I” he fixed Chris alone with a pointed look. “Can negotiate the situation and deal with the wolf.”

Stiles shakes his head emphatically when Chris motions them towards the stairs, presumably to acquiesce to Peter’s request. “Please!” he begged, frantic and urgent at the prospect of being alone with Peter again. “Please don’t give me to him...Chris ‘please’ don’t do this, he’s lying to you....ple-” His cries were cut off as one of Peter’s broad hands clamped over his mouth, jerking Stiles’ head back against his chest. 

“That’s enough out of you,” Peter ground out, vise like grip over his mouth tight enough that Stiles could practically feel his teeth grind together. Stiles’ fingers scrabbled against Peter’s hand, but trembled too much to have much of an effect. Hot tears filled his eyes when he saw Chris’ shoulders tense, but after a slight pause the man resumed his ascent up the stairs, leading Peter to one of the guest rooms. Peter dragged him bodily up the stairs, giving no outward indication he felt any of the blows Stiles’ flailing limbs landed on his person. 

Once in the room, Peter threw Stiles onto the bed, hands quickly reforming their grip to keep him in place while he jerked his head at Chris to get his attention. “Could you pass me the rope in my bag?” Peter asked Chris, tone almost conversational. 

Stiles began to thrash anew, hot tears rolling down his cheeks as he desperately twisted and writhed in a futile attempt to free himself. He could just make out Chris’ figure hovering in the doorway, head downcast as he waved two hunters into the room. Stiles couldn’t help the wounded cry at the first brush of the rope against his skin, the leaden feel of it betraying the foxglove within it. He cried out for Derek on reflex, the realization that the wolf could not save him knifing through him like a sharp pain. “Don’t do this,” he begged anyone who would listen. “Please don’t leave me with him…”

Once his hands and feet were secure, Peter ushered the other men from the room. Stiles lay docile now, completely drained from his struggles. He stared up at the ceiling, hot tears leaking down through the mess on his face, breath hitching as he struggled to draw in air. Movement at the corner of his eye drew his attention, and his heart surged with hope when he recognized Chris. He blinked, clearing his eyes enough to properly see the older man, his wrists tugging futilely against his bonds. “Please, Chris,” he whispered, trembling in his urgency. “Please help me...I didn’t lie to you, he did hurt us, I swear. He - he forced himself on me….you must believe me…”

Chris’ arms remained folded over his chest, his head downcast as he listened, impassive against Stiles’ emotions. 

“He hurt me, Chris...he’ll hurt me again, please don’t let him take me-”

Chris shook his head, frowning down at where Stiles’ wrist was rubbed raw by the rope from his struggles. “I wish I could believe you, Stiles,” he said with a heavy sigh. “But I don’t.”

Stiles’ lip trembled, a sob clawing up through his throat when Chris turned his back on him, passing Peter in the doorway as he slipped out into the hall. Stiles closed his eyes once more, limp atop the bed as he listened to the two men exchange a few words in hushed tones before. He didn’t bother opening his eyes when the door finally shut, much like the last nail in a coffin. He clenched them tighter when the mattress sagged with Peter’s weight by his hip, only opening them with a jerk when fingers brushed his hair back from his forehead. Peter chuckled, little deterred by Stiles’ obvious displeasure as he carded his fingers through the clumped strands familiarly, a mocking simulacrum of the care which had been bestowed upon him by Derek in the past weeks. 

“I can only imagine what you did to make that old hunter so conflicted over you, pet,” Peter mused with a wry chuckle, though Stiles could hear the bitter undercurrent of jealousy. 

Stiles was immediately reminded of Chris’ reassuring hand on his shoulder, his paternal gentility as he helped Stiles clean himself those days ago. He recalled the sincerity with which Chris had promised to protect him from this very fate. How foolish he’d been to trust a man, after so many years of being conditioned to the contrary. Chris’ confliction did little to aid Stiles in his current predicament.

“A hunter’s den, of all places…” He cupped Stiles’ cheek, thumb wiping away the wetness there. “I really am quite impressed, Stiles, though by your ingenuity or brazen recklessness I couldn’t say.” 

Stiles glared up at him, resigning to his fate by the second. “How did you even find us?” he asked, longing to know the answer to the question that had long plagued him. 

Peter’s thumb stopped it’s languorous glide across Stiles’ cheekbone, coming to rest just beside the curve of his mouth. He narrowed his eyes, head cocking the slightest bit, almost like a dog. He smiled then, the small curve genuine in its surprised delight. “You really don’t know, do you?”

Stiles scoffed, shaking his head to try and push Peter’s hand from his face, his touch odious and unwanted. “Of course I don’t, how could I? I felt no trail...we left nothing for you to track...we’ve been gone for weeks and yet you found us. How?”

Peter threw his head back and laughed at that, a short sharp sound accompanied by a flash of white teeth. “I really thought you were more clever than that, little kit,” he tutted. “So disappointing.”

Stiles scowled at him, squirming when Peter’s hand stroked down his collarbone, fingers parting the front of his shirt and baring his pale chest. He idly thumbed the pink bud of Stiles’ now exposed nipple, ignoring Stiles’ immediate struggles only to lean down and press his nose into the curve of Stiles’ neck and inhale deeply, like a man starved. 

“What are you doing?” Stiles cried out, shying away as best he could, shuddering in revulsion when a hot tongue stroked up the length of his throat. 

Peter hummed his contentment, giving one last little nuzzle before he sat back. “I warned you before…there’s nowhere you could go I wouldn’t find you,” he mused, tone almost fond if it weren’t for the lilt of implied threat. “I’d know that scent anywhere, darling.”

Cold prickled along Stiles’ shoulders, the words twisting something in him even though he still didn’t entirely understand. He tilted his head, eyeing Peter suspiciously as the man dragged his open palm down the center of Stiles’ chest and along his flat belly. Peter’s fingertip swirled a lazy circle around Stiles’ navel with the pad of his finger, nail of his thumb scratching across Stiles’ hipbone. 

“All that time with my hapless nephew, and you never learned the keenness of a wolf’s nose?”

Stiles’ heart fluttered at the word, eyes wide in dismay as he scanned Peter for any indication of falsehood. The man did love to tease, but there was something finite in the way he sat stoically above Stiles, hands possessive where they caressed him. It suddenly all made sense, the ease Peter could have taken Derek captive alone, the way Peter always knew when Stiles was lying, how Peter could always find him, no matter where he fled to. 

Stiles only realized he hadn’t taken a breath when his lungs began to burn, chest constricted from lack of air. He felt so foolish, so terribly naive. 

He’d barely opened his mouth to scream for Chris when Peter was on him, stuffing a cloth in his mouth before fastening it securely behind his head. 

The man tutted Stiles, patronizing and smug as he smoothed back Stiles’ hair and patted his cheek. “Now now, don’t be cross darling, once again you’ve only yourself to blame.” The grin Peter flashed at him was decidedly sharper than before. He stood with a leisurely sigh, smoothing down his shirtfront before checking the ropes which secured Stiles’ wrists and ankles. “I’ve always been honest with you, Stiles. Seeing as you poisoned me with wolfsbane before your last little escape attempt, I was sure you knew.” He tightened the rope about Stiles’ right wrist, making the boy wince against his gag. 

“That was most unpleasant, by the way. Took me days to recover. I haven’t quite decided how best to punish you yet.”

Stiles closed his eyes, teeth grinding against the gag as he willed down the panic which was attempting to bubble up through his throat. He felt breath against his throat again as Peter once more pressed his nose to Stiles’ skin and inhaled deeply. 

“How many times did he have you?” Peter wondered aloud, hands roaming down Stiles chest to his breeches. “What wretched nephew of mine...did he rut you like a beast? Is that why my touch never pleased you little kit?” Stiles sobbed into the gag as Peter pushed a hand inside his trousers, fingers slipping behind his bollocks to press against his hole. Stiles squirmed, his bound position restricting his movements. He bit down into the gag, teeth grinding against the cloth as he tried to clamp his knees together and trap Peter’s wayward hand between his thighs. 

Peter pursed his lips at the swollen skin he found. His displeasure at their recent amorous activities was clear on his face as he finally withdraw his hand, nose curled as he wiped his fingers on the bedding. He promised to clear the stink of it from Stiles, but the boy scarcely heard him. He was attempting to clear his mind, vacate his body as he had done in the past when Peter became too much to bear, but his quickening breaths and racing heart impeded such goals. 

A knock at the door caught both their attention. Peter placed a warning finger to his lips, eyeing Stiles carefully before making his way. He opened it just enough to peek out, speaking only a moment in hushed tones before sighing heavily, and nodding his assent. He closed the door once more, returning to Stiles in three easy strides. “Time to deal with Derek,” Peter drawled, taking Stiles by the jaw to force his gaze. “Behave yourself. There are certainly fates worse than death, and I’m inventive, as you well remember.” Before taking his leave, Peter stepped to the mirror, quickly running a comb through his hair to smooth it back into place and make himself presentable. Once satisfied, the man took one last satisfied glance at his captive, slipping through the door immediately after. 

Stiles let his head slump to the side, every muscle releasing as he finally was given a moment’s respite to absorb what was happening. Derek would be killed, taken out like a rabid dog by the band of hunters under Peter’s gleeful supervision. His chest burned as he sobbed, coughing on air as he tried to inhale deeply through the gag. Distressed as he was, Stiles didn’t hear the door open, and startled horribly when a hand rested light upon his shoulder. 

He opened his eyes to find Allison beside him, large eyes welling with tears. “You lied to me,” she accused, voice breaking under the weight of his betrayal. “I defended you to my father, lied to him for you, and all this time...Derek was…” She wiped angrily at the tears which rolled heavy down her flushed cheeks. “I believed you both friend...did you mock me?”

Stiles shook his head emphatically, his tears matching those which stained Allison’s own face in their earnestness. He tried to speak through his gag, chin tilting to indicate she should remove it. She glanced warily over her shoulder, heel of her hand pressing below one eye she she darted a hand forward to tug the cloth free from Stiles’ mouth. 

“Never, I swear it. You’re dear to us both, you must believe me.”

She shook her head, mouth turning down as she bit back a bitter sob. “I want to believe you,” she confessed. “But I came to you, Stiles! It was just the two of us then, you should have told me.”

“How could I?” Stiles implored. “Derek and I came upon your father in the woods before taking refuge in your barn...we saw him kill an omega, he made it clear that first night our safety depended on our humanity. How could we risk it?”

She worried her lower lip between her teeth, shoulders hunched in her uncertainty. 

“Derek is good,” Stiles implored, tears welling in both their eyes once more at his mention. “He’s gentle and kind...you’ve seen it. He’d never hurt anyone.”

“He’s a wolf, Stiles,” she insisted, voice petulant but notably devoid of the anger it had previously carried. 

“He took your pain!” Stiles insisted. “When you burned yourself on the kettle, remember how the wound did not trouble you? Derek knew the act could have likely led to our discovery but would not see you suffer. He doesn’t deserve this, you know it-”

“And that man?” she cut in, eyes cast down to the floor and arms folded protectively about herself. “You said you were running from your uncle.”

Stiles’ fists clenched, gritting his teeth against the foxglove fibers which bore into his skin as he tugged against his bonds. “Peter found me in the forest and kept me captive against my will. He tortured me, forced himself on me-” he throbbed between his legs where Peter had touched him earlier. “He kept me for his pleasures and trapped Derek in wolf form for years like a rabid dog. Believe me or not, that’s the truth of it. And if you truly believe Derek should die for what he is, then kill me too, for I may not be a wolf but I’m just as human as he.”

Allison’s red-rimmed eyes widened at the admittance, her surprise genuine. She took a shy step forward, gaze skipping across his prone form. “W-what are you?” she asked. “If you speak true then show me.”

Stiles rattled his wrists against the ropes, hope welling within him. “These bonds keep me in human form, but I swear to show you if you undo them.”

She reached forward eagerly before stopping, her fingers hovered over the fastenings. “You promise not to run?” she asked, eyes fixed upon his with a sternness which rivaled her father’s.

He nodded, kept nodding as she finally loosed one of his wrists. He thanked her, words breathy and almost beyond his control as they spilled from between his lips. Once freed, he scrambled from the bed as though it burned him, his hands brushing the backs of his thighs and arms to unsully them from the mere touch of something belonging to Peter. Allison stepped back with a sharp inhale when his eyes flashed gold at her, the first indication that he belonged to the ranks of the supernatural. Like slipping into a warm coat, he donned his furs, bones shrinking and knitting into his other form until he stood a fox before her, swathed in the clothes which no longer suited him. It would have been easy to slip past her then, but Stiles held to his word and changed back to human form, naked as a babe before her. 

Allison’s hands had flown to her mouth, her eyes wide in continued disbelief. “I never would have thought...” she leaned back against the wall for support, a lost look in her eye as she took in everything they had spoken of in the moments past. She shook her head resolutely, brushing the hair back from her eyes as she pushed off the wall and stood to full height. “My father won’t release Derek, and if you tell the others what you are, they will surely kill you - you must run, Stiles.”

“I won’t leave him,” he insisted, mouth a hard line of set determination. 

“They have him chained in the cellar,” she insisted, regret heavy in her voice, though she remained firm. “There are too many of them, and they’ll be well armed.”

Stiles remembered the crossbow she’d aimed at them that first morning in the barn, the craftsmanship. He had little doubt she spoke true, and the others would be similarly equipped. There was also the issue of Peter, who would likely set upon him at first glance. Stiles held no illusions that he could overpower the man through strength alone, nor speed or agility. 

Sinking to his knees on the floor, Stiles opened the pack Peter had left behind, hoping to find something useful within. There was little within it upon first glance, but when Stiles withdrew the items, he found a few corked glass bottles wrapped carefully in a spare shirt. He did not see the dried flowers he had used before, but found a powder of similar color, the label “Aconite” affixed to the front by an adhesive. Stiles held the bottle for Allison to see. “Do you know this?”

She nodded, plucking the bottle from his fingers to better examine it. “Wolfsbane, we use it to tip our arrows. It’s poison to wolves if it gets into the blood, or in large enough doses within food or drink.”

Once she’d returned it to him, Stiles uncorked the bottle and tipped some into his palm. It was a fine powder, airy as dust in consistency. “How large a dose must it be?”

Her mouth turned down into a frown. “Do you mean to kill Derek yourself?”

He shook his head, tipping more of the powder into his palm until he could just barely close his fingers around the little mound without any slipping free. Allison was correct, he could not take on every hunter; even with Derek’s assistance they were outnumbered and outgunned. He could, however, provide them with a worthy distraction, and an alternative target.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! Hope this one was enjoyable.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EEEE!!! It's the ending!! (Thanks so much Pie and Triscuit for the encouragement and cattle prods <3)

The main hall was eerily empty when Stiles made his way down the stairs. He’d found a small knife in Peter’s pack which he’d hidden in the rear waistband of his trousers, though he doubted it would do him much service, if he was ever even given the chance to remove it. His real advantage remained clutched tightly in his fist, his fingers tingling from the intensity of his grip in his effort to not spill a single grain. 

Allison kept several paces ahead of him, ensuring their path was clear before waving Stiles forward. She’d warned him that once he entered the cellar, she would be of no help to him. The other hunters took no influence from her, and even her father might not be able to curb their thirst for his retribution. She did offer him a cloak with a hood to better cover his face, in the hopes it would buy him the seconds he needed to achieve his goal. He pulled the hood down further as he reached the bottom of the stairs, ensuring his hair was covered and eyes were in shadow. 

While the hall was devoid of others, they could hear muffled voices rising up through the floorboards. They exchanged looks when a cheer rang out, their steps swiftening at the ragged howl which followed. The cellar door was heavy and reinforced with iron, but blessedly unlocked. Before Stiles could take the first step down, Allison tugged him back and wrapped him in a brief but tight embrace which he gratefully returned. 

“Good luck,” she offered, sad little smile ghosting over her lips. 

He took her hand in his, planting one quick kiss to her knuckles. “Thank you,” he breathed, giving her one last squeeze before he reluctantly released her, sure it would be the last time they stood before one another. He forced himself to turn from her, his resolve finally setting in after the first few steps down into the cellar. In a rare stroke of luck, the stairs led into a short hallway rather than an open room, granting Stiles a modicum of cover. His heart quickened at another strangled howl, the pain in it like falling through ice. 

The voices were louder now, clearer than they’d been through the floorboards. He could smell their delight, their arousal at Derek’s pain. It sickened him, and he clung to the anger it invoked to give him the strength to proceed into the main chamber. 

The room was larger than he’d expected, nearly the size of the hall above. At the center rear of the room, a large wooden cross had been erected, Derek’s limbs were bound securely to each arm of the “X.” He was shirtless, his skin pale, face drained of color while his chest bloomed with the dark blood which oozed from wounds that had yet to heal. He still had the broken off end of a bolt protruding from one thigh, though the others appeared to have been torn from him. It took everything within Stiles not to cry out for him, run to him and press his hands over the wounds to stave off the bleeding. 

Quick as he could, Stiles tore himself from such thoughts, instead scanning the room for Peter. The man was easy enough to find, standing so that he had an unobstructed view of his wounded nephew, with Chris close to his side. The other hunters gathered close as well, talking amongst each other and cheering eagerly when one stepped forward to abuse Derek in some fashion. They had cut him, and Stiles saw Peter’s lip curl in delight as a man stepped forward to press a substance into one of Derek’s wounds. It looked almost like salt, and when it touched him, Derek’s head jerked back, teeth clenched and neck tensed against the pain. The men around shouted their delight and encouraged the man to repeat the measure. 

Stiles recognized the moment Peter was alerted to his presence in the chamber. The man’s nostrils flared twice, his lips pursing together in a bemused fashion before his head turned in Stiles’ general direction. Stiles took this as his cue and advanced, his fingers clenching tighter still around the powder in his palm as he tucked his hand close to his side, out of sight but not obvious in his intent. He needed only to think of Derek’s wretched bloodied body for the tears to form in his eyes, mouth curling down with displeasure as he allowed emotion to well within him. He hurried forward, tripping into Peter’s arms so that the man caught him to hold him upright, an easy enough feat with the man’s superior reflexes. 

“How did you get free, pet?” Peter asked, arm curling possessive about his waist as he waved off the few hunters who seemed to recognize the boy in his arms. He pushed back Stiles’ hood, fingers threading through his hair as he took in the tears slipping down Stiles’ cheeks. 

Stiles forced himself to keep his eyes trained on Peter’s chest, pretending as though he couldn’t meet the man’s eyes in his upset. “Oh Peter,” he cried, adrenaline causing a tremble in his voice. “A man came in, he...he tried to…” Stiles let his head fall to Peter’s chest, face buried against the man’s throat. 

Peter snorted in amusement but did not push Stiles away. “My poor fox, always the perfect prey, aren’t you” he mused, urging him forward with the arm encircling him. He slowly began to move them towards Chris and Derek, pace unhurried and voice hushed against Stiles’ temple. “Or did you promise him your silky thighs and then give the poor sap the slip?”

Stiles glowered, realizing that Peter was clued into his act and that he needed to change course. He sniffed, standing straighter and allowing a petulant jut of his chin which he knew Peter delighted in. “You have it right,” he admitted with put upon reluctance, wiping at his eyes with his free hand. This earned him a chuckle, Peter’s arm tightening just a bit. 

“Devious little thing. Don’t pretend you’re here on my account, come for your wolf, have you?” There was a bitterness to his words, as though he felt slighted by Stiles’ rebuke of him. As though he genuinely felt Stiles would have eventually come around and desired him with the same fervor. He allowed Peter to lead him back to his original position, closer to Derek but also unfortunately closer to Chris. The hunter would not look in his direction, much less meet his eye. Stiles took this as a stroke of luck, and moved in closer to Peter, pretending to shield himself from the sight of Derek’s prostrate form. 

“You could stop this if you truly wanted,” Stiles insisted. “Take us back with you.”

Peter nodded then, hand sliding up the length of Stiles’ back to rest at his nape. “I could kill every man in this room if I desired it. I still may, after I have my fun.”

“After they kill Derek, you mean,” Stiles clarified, bite slipping into his tone in his passions. 

“Yes.” Peter’s responding grin was all teeth, malicious glint in his eye. Stiles was too familiar with that smirk, knew well it delighted Peter to know when he had the upper hand, when he lorded his dominance over Stiles and drank in the boy’s helplessness. Stiles had always dreamed of a moment when he could wipe the look clear from the man’s face, make him feel as hopeless and small as Stiles felt when forced to endure his torments. 

Stiles shoved a hand against Peter’s chest, creating an arm’s length of space between them. Just enough. 

“Wolf!” he shouted, voice piercing through the chamber. He felt every eye in the room whirl towards them, relished the scant second of confusion knitting Peter’s brows before Stiles lashed his arm out and slammed the palm containing the powdered wolfsbane against the man’s face. 

Peter reared back on impact, instinctually inhaling through his nose and ingesting some of the powder. Stiles follows the movement, stepping forward to smear his fingers across Peter’s eyes and then arcing down over his mouth, leaving trails of the purple powder down the man’s face. He stepped back then, watched greedily how the man curled over and spat, shaking his head vigorously as the powder likely worked into his eyes and nose. He cried out, the noise akin enough to anguish that it lit up every nerve on Stiles’ body like an electric current. 

The men surrounding Peter took a step back at the sound, silence heavy as all watched the man jerk, face buried in his own hands. Stiles couldn’t take his eyes from the man, the magnetic pull of his suffering too great and satisfying, which was why he was so caught off guard when Peter finally raised his head once more. The eyes which fixed on Stiles were unfamiliar, burning red like hot coals, fiery in their intensity. 

“Clever boy,” he snarled, words slurred through his elongating teeth, his shoulders hulking as he stretched his neck against the pain of his body attempting to repel the wolfsbane. His body seemed to swell and grow as he turned, to Stiles, the fingers at his sides now tipped with ragged claws. 

Stiles took a step back as Peter grew still, muscles popping and bones snapping as they began to elongate and change shape. He gaped in horror at the emerging creature before him, a nightmarish meld of man and beast unlike any form Derek had ever taken. Even the hunters stook momentarily transfixed, air heavy with their mounting surprise at what was happening before them.

“So very. Very. Clever.”

The last words were snarled and inhuman as hair sprouted across the man’s cheeks and forehead, the threads of his shirt and trousers snapping as they gave way under his expanded bulk. When the change neared completion, he stood heads above the tallest man before slouching forwards onto all fours. He looked to Stiles the monster Chris had claimed Derek to be. For the increased side and otherworldly glow of his eyes, Derek was beautiful in wolf form. The thing before him was grotesque. 

“Alpha!” 

The cry tore Stiles from his stupor, shocked him back to the present where a hulking beast stood but a few paces before him, red eyes fixed and intent. He crawled back just as Peter surged forward, falling hard onto the earth floor as the first crossbow bolts sunk deep into the creature’s flesh. There were ropes attached to the bolts which several hunters held fast to, two or three on each line, but the monster pulled them off their feet with a sweep of its great arm, tore the bolts from his body with barely a low snarl. 

A shot rang out, Chris’ voice rising in instruction to the men around him. They circled Peter, screaming when they came too close to his slashing claws, some falling back in terror when the beast advanced. Chaos erupted, the air thick with smoke from repeated gunfire, ringing with screams of fallen men. Stiles scrambled from the thick of it on hand and knee until he was able to stand again. He ran towards the wooden structure, nearly crying with relief which he found Derek still breathing. Bloodied and ragged but alive.

Withdrawing the knife from the back of his trousers, Stiles made quick work of Derek’s bonds. He flinched with every snarl behind him, the sounds ringing in his ears as though they were much closer. The walls and floor about them shook with the ferocity of Peter’s howl, the sound just as twisted and horrific as the man’s wolf form. When Stiles looked up at Derek, he found the man’s teeth clenched, eyes glowing their ghostly blue. His chest was heaving, back arching against the cross and the change warping his handsome features once the wolfsbane ropes were removed. Once no longer supported by his bonds, Derek slumped forward onto Stiles, nearly taking them both down to the dirt floor under his weight. 

“Derek?” Stiles cried, voice shrill in his panic. “What’s happening?”

Derek’s teeth grit, eyes squeezed shut as he took in deep gusts of air. “Calling me….Stiles...forcing...change.”

Stiles recalled his father explaining to him that an Alpha could take control of his betas, compel them to act through will alone. He dragged Derek behind the erected cross, let him slump against the solid wood so Stiles could take his face between his hands and hold it steady, compelling the man himself with his eyes and words. “Stay with me,” he ordered. Fingers digging into Derek’s sweaty dark hair. “Fight him, Derek...stay with me.”

Derek panted, face sheened with perspiration and chest rising and falling in rapid bursts. He nodded, fingers finding Stiles’ throat only to close his palm over the pulsepoint, narrowed eyes fixed on Stiles until they faded back to his whorl of green and gold. Stiles immediately stood once more, grunting as he hauled Derek bodily back to his own feet. He slung Derek’s arm over his own shoulders, summoning all the strength within him to drag an abused and still healing Derek towards the stairs. 

Chaos raged around them, a mad flurry of activity and carnage. Stiles’ foot slipped, the ground beneath him wet and slick, dark blood smeared along the sole when he lifted it. They kept to the wall furthest from Peter’s hulking form, from the claws stained with gore and red eyes which landed on them only to be redirected by another attack. The hunters had tried to take hold of him again with ropes, had just managed to get them wrapped about the monster’s throat only to be thrown against the wall just beside Stiles and Derek. Shots rang out, and the wolf howled, head thrown back as the bullets met their mark, lodging deep in his flesh. Another shot sounded, then another, gunpowder thick like fog in the air around them. 

Derek was getting heavy, slipping in Stiles’ slick grasp as he used the last of his strength to heal his wounds. He needed but a few moments to mend his poor torn body, but it was precious time they did not have. They had to leave the cellar before Peter was subdued, or before the beast tore through all the hunters and could finally fix on them once more. Stiles cried out as Derek began to slip from him, his body swaying in his fatigue. Stiles stumbled as he tried to keep hold of him, grunting under Derek’s weight. They were so close, the entry to the stairwell just a few paces beyond, but Derek kept slipping from his grasp. 

A snarl was the only warning which preceded the attack, Peter’s movements too swift even for Stiles’ fox senses to detect before it was too late. He took Stiles by the throat, his other hand slamming Derek back into the wall hard enough to crack the stone. Stiles’ feet scrambled for purchase as Peter dragged his body up the wall, fingers clawing at Peter’s grip as his airway was constructed, a mere flick of Peter’s wrist all it would take to snap his neck like a dry twig. Those red eyes narrowed, fixing on him as Peter reared back his other arm, claws flexed and angled towards his vulnerable belly. 

Before the blow could land, Derek darted into the scant space between them, seizing Peter’s wrist in mid-air. He was panting hard, sweat slick on his brow from the exertion, but his eyes blazed blue, the wolf marring his features. He snapped his teeth to the Alpha, muscles of his back bulging as he released Peter’s wrist and pushed with all his might against the other werewolf’s chest. Peter stumbled back a step, grip on Stiles holding firm until bolt lodged itself into the meat of the Alpha’s forearm. Stiles fell to the ground in a heap, coughing hard as he fought for breath, vision blurred from loss of air. 

Peter recoiled with a snarl, Derek taking the opportunity to slam bodily into him once more. Hunters gave way to make room for the pair, the Alpha their immediate target as they notched their crossbows and brandished their swords. Peter slashed at Derek when the younger were moved again to push him back, shearing raw ribbons of flesh across his nephews arms and chest. Derek took the blows, though they must have pained him greatly, and while he continued to back his uncle across the room, he made no attempt to cause similar injury. 

“Get the chain!” 

Stiles looked up to see Chris looming above him a second before the man reached down and hauled him bodily to his feet with a viselike grip to his upper arm. He stumbled when Chris shoved him towards the stairs, quickly righting himself to resist the man’s direction. 

“Get out of here, Stiles,” Chris ordered through clenched teeth, face marred with blood and dirt.

Stiles shook his head, slapping Chris’ hand away when it made to grab at him once more. “Not without Derek,” he returned, jaw tilting in a hasty incline towards where Derek was barely keeping Peter at bay while two hunters managed to sling a chain about Peter’s throat. 

Chris cursed under his breath, but moved immediately to assist the two hunters in securing the Alpha. “Rope!” he cried. “Catch it’s legs!”

Emboldened by their minor victory, the Hunters doubled their efforts, several holding fast to each end of the chain while others caught Peter about the waist with wolfsbane rope. Peter went to slash at Derek, succeeding more in pushing the younger wolf back against the dirt floor with enough force that he slid several paces, collapsing in a weak huddle of blood and torn flesh. 

Stiles had not taken but one step towards the fallen man when Chris rushed towards him, taking advantage of the other hunters’ distraction to haul Derek to his feet. The man grunted at the effort, Derek’s bulk weighed down with his fatigue, but managed to sling one of the wolf’s arms over his shoulders to better drag him with. He indicated hurriedly towards the stairwell to Stiles with a jerk of his head, following close behind with Derek. Just as they reached the stairs, a ragged howl split the air, angry and wild. Stiles waved Chris ahead, looking back only once to find Peter’s red eyes tracking him. The wolf renewed his thrashes at once, near feral with the intensity he fixed on Stiles’ retreating form. His claws arching through the air before sinking deep into the face of a hapless hunter who held the chain, his death more to appease Peter’s fury than aid in his escape. Though twisted like an animal, Stiles saw the man beneath, the possessive rage bubbling forth as it had before when Stiles had first attempted to poison him back at the caravan. 

Stiles needed no more provocation to sprint up the stairs behind Chris, blood thick in his veins at Peter’s enraged snarls. He took up Derek’s other arm, pushing Derek’s face forward when he wolf tried to look back. “Keep going,” he panted. “Just keep going.”

Once they reached the top of the stairs, Chris took Derek’s arm from about his neck and gave them a final shove towards the door. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, chest heaving from the effort of helping Derek up the stairs. 

Stiles nodded, an unfamiliar warmth rolling through his belly at the heartfelt words, at the sincerity in Chris’ pale gaze. He adjusted his grip on Derek, the wolf finally getting his feet beneath him just enough that he didn’t drag them both down to the floor. The state of urgency did not allow for a thorough examination of the whirl of warring emotion within him, but he managed to dispel a weighted “thank you” from between his slack lips.

Chris nodded in turn, their mutual acceptance as good a farewell as any. In another second he was gone, the cellar door shut tight behind him, muffling the frenzied chaos below, and minute less beyond that Stiles was leading Derek out the front door. 

The air was cold, the first silent flakes of the season’s snow falling cool upon their heated skin. Stiles held a hand against the worst of Derek’s wounds, the deep slashed marring his ribs and still bleeding sluggishly. Derek was better able to hold more of his own weight finally as they trudged forward, the fresh snow beginning to gather behind them and cover their footprints. 

Derek’s wounds lingered far longer than usual, as was often the case with marks inflicted by an Alpha, but the sweat finally dried upon his skin, the chill in the air invigorating them both just enough to keep going. Stiles hoped they were going in one direction, the woods around them dense, disorientating, and Derek was more focused on moving his feet than deciding where to place them. When Derek slowed, Stiles urged him on, arm tight about the man’s trim waist, the fingers of his other hand threaded through Derek’s, each of them clutching the other tight. 

He lost track of time as they went, the moon high behind the clouds and the snow still falling soft about them. Derek stumbled then, and Stiles cried out as his center of gravity shifted, nearly taking them both to the ground. He braced his legs and hauled Derek back up, thinking the man merely fatigued until it happened again, Derek crying out this time with a pained grimace. 

“Derek?” 

Stiles’ brows furrowed with worry as Derek grit his teeth, his eyes clenched shut before he lurched forward, bent at the waist in agony. Stiles barely managed to help Derek slump down onto a fallen log when it happened again, Derek’s arms wrapping about himself against the pain. Stiles tried to comfort him, but to no avail, his hands hovering helpless above the man’s overheated skin when Derek fell forward onto his knees, sharpened teeth bared with his ragged scream. 

Derek’s eyes flew open again, his hand scrabbling back for Stiles. “Stiles…” he whispered, clipped and anxious. “Stiles…”

Stiles immediately sank to his knees beside Derek, clutching his hand and urging Derek’s head down against his throat. He stroked a hand down Derek’s bare back, shushing him through his panic without knowing what had caused it. He felt a ripple rush through Derek, his bones shifting and muscle building before it returned to its original state. Derek shuddered through it, clinging to Stiles as he lay curled against him. He froze then, muscles tensing before he raised his head to meet Stiles’ eyes, Derek’s own alight with red. 

Stiles gaped at him, hands clasping on either side of Derek’s face to hold him still for further observation. They both looked down in wonder as Derek’s flesh began to knit back together, his healing accelerated even faster than it had before. In a matter of moments, it would have been impossible to know he’d been so wounded were it not for the smears of dried blood still marring his smooth flesh. 

“How…” Stiles wondered aloud, the question hanging in the air between them before Derek looked up, his eyes green once more and soft with an addled sorrow which caught Stiles unawares. 

Derek lowered his gaze to the ground, handsome face boyish and lost as he murmured, “Peter...dead. Alpha now.”

Stiles was confused by the uneasy weight of the man’s words until he remembered the struggle in the basement, how Derek had taken every blow but never doled one himself, how he’d never taken opportunity to strike Peter, end him. Were Stiles in his place, there never would have been such hesitation, and Derek had been prisoner even longer than he. “You’re sad,” he observed, the declaration feeling foolish on his tongue, but the question remained. He cupped Derek’s cheek, rubbed over the stubbled skin with his thumb. “You couldn’t kill him before. Why?”

Derek shrugged one broad shoulder, pain flashing in his eyes before they fixed again on the forest floor. “Family...the last” he finally said, the admittance weary, something he had likely warred with for some time but never truly resigned to. Was unlikely ever to. 

Stiles leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together, noses brushing. You have me, the gesture said, and Derek accepted it gratefully, returning it by pulling Stiles into his arms. They allowed themselves a moment of peace together, content in each other’s arms now that the threat of Peter was removed once and for all. The hunters were still a lingering possibility, though the carnage the Alpha had raged would likely leave them needing time to care for their own and regroup before they could mount a proper search. Chris would certainly not push for one, and with any luck, the bloodlust of the others would be sated by Peter’s demise. 

They sat upon the ground together, the dirt beneath them stiff from the cold and snow collecting on their limbs and in their hair. After a time, Derek nuzzled against Stiles’ temple with a shiver, though upon inspection his skin was still warm to the touch. “Alpha now,” he mumbled, tight and anxious. “What if...monster, like Peter.”

Stiles carded his fingers through Derek’s hair, snow melting against his skin as he brushed it away. “You’re not a monster,” he insisted. “You took wolf form before, will being an Alpha change that?”

Derek shrugged. Stiles wondered if he truly didn’t know, or if it had been so long since he knew another Alpha that he’d forgotten. In the end he decided the only way to know was to try, which took some prompting. Derek was worried he would lose himself in the new change, that he would hurt Stiles, but finally he rose to his feet and removed his trousers. He made Stiles take several paces back before he closed his eyes and focused on the change. Stiles watched as the wolf rose to the surface, features contorting as fur sprouted, but rather than expand to the great hulking beast Peter’s form had taken, he fell forward into the familiar black wolf. True, he was larger still than before, and his eyes were red, but he otherwise looked much the same. 

Stiles let out a sigh of relief, content in his assumption that Peter’s monstrousness was a manifestation of his twisted character, rather than a typical Alpha form. Derek looked lighter when he shed his furs again for his human form, as though a heavy burden had been released from his shoulders, allowing him to stand tall and move more freely. 

Human again, Derek moved forward towards Stiles, slotting their mouths together to exchange a tender kiss which grew in passion and mounting excitement for all they had overcome and everything still yet to come. “Love you,” Derek all but growled in his ardor, strong arms dragging Stiles flush against him as he soundly kissed him once more. “Love you, Stiles.” Stiles was only too glad to return the sentiment.

When they finally parted, Stiles felt the familiar itch under his skin, the buzz to feel unfettered, to run wild as he had in his youth, as he and Derek had during their time alone in the woods. Derek seemed to understand his intent, reaching forward to pluck the cord which held the red cloak closed, a gentle nudge of his fingers all that was required to urge the heavy brocade from his shoulders. He stooped then to help tug the tight boots free, Stiles hobbling with a clear laugh at Derek’s obvious enthusiasm. Stiles’s own hands rose to undo the fastenings of his shirt, then bent to push his trousers down his legs before he stepped free, leaving the garments in a small heap in the snow. Now equally unclothed, Stiles tilted his head, pressing a sweet kiss to Derek’s mouth before slipping into his fox skin and darting off between the trees in a clear invitation for Derek to chase after him. 

A bare second later and Derek was gone, great wolf in his place, tongue lolling happily from his mouth as he sprinted after the nimble fox into the woods. 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't believe it's over!! This took a while, but it feels so good to get finished. Hope you enjoyed, and thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles' age is never actually mentioned but intended around 17/18, so putting underage to be safe. Stiles comes to feel he has to sleep with Peter to keep himself safe and doesn't have a choice, so while their sex isn't physically violent, it's still rape. No rape/non-con/dub-con occurs with Stiles/Derek.


End file.
